


Heirs of Kings

by Valyanamie



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dior lives, F/M, M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-06 14:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 58,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20508830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valyanamie/pseuds/Valyanamie
Summary: Consumed by grief, Dior is haunted by the whispering jewel in the wooden box. Aching to be rid of it, he summons the accursed sons of Fëanor to court; in hopes of forging a lasting alliance that  will help keep the darkness of Morgoth at bay.But much to his shameful horror, strange emotions take ahold of him, and he finds himself morbidly intrigued by the eldest of seven brothers: An elf who is equally as cold as he seems caring.





	1. Gloom in Menegroth

The trees were weeping. 

Soft sound of drums echoed through the forest as droplets tumbled from the heavens. Even a thousand leaves were little help against the hard tears that fell from the skies, and the earth beneath them was both damp and wet from the heavy rain. Grey clouds covered the daylight, so thick and dark that it seemed as if there was an endless night looming over the woodlands that made Doriath. It would be a cold summer, and only a fool would wonder why. 

The land was grieving. One could feel it in their bones, deep in their hearts, and the depths of the earth. One could see it in the trees, crippled and bent as if they were hanging their heads in sympathy. One could _hear_ it. The nightingales and many birds of the forest had long stopped singing; even the flowers dared not bloom. 

Dior watched, numbly, as the rain poured with not a care for the creatures below it. He himself was soaking wet from head to toe, his hair hanging like a black curtain down his face, tumbling like a waterfall of ink. He had not moved since dusk, and staring now up into the sky he noted it was already dawn. 

Had time truly passed so quickly? Looking at the grey clouds, he supposed it was difficult to truly tell what time of the day it was, but time worked differently in grief. It was so fleeting- and yet ever so slow. Sometimes he wondered if it moved at all.

Shutting his eyes, he tried to ignore the foreign feeling that stung his lungs and clawed at his throat. In all honesty: he could barely feel the cold. His toes were tinted blue and his fingers shook as pulled his knees closer to his chest, and yet he could not feel the chill in the air. Only the soft rain trickling down his skin. It was difficult to feel the frost when all he could feel was– 

Whatever _this_ was. 

He didn’t know what to call it; this messed up feeling that was a whirlwind of terrible emotions that left him aching and raw. All he did know was that it _hurt_. It hurt and the rain helped. 

“_Dior_!”

Opening his eyes, he listened closely to the voice that called his name. It was lovely, soft, and some distance away, but it called to him still. The first time he heard the voice had been some years ago, upon his first visit to Doriath when he had been eighteen years old. _An important day_, his father had called it. Dior had met an Elven maiden who looked every bit as much a lady as her father. She had newly returned from a patrol, there had been twigs caught in her silvery hair and a wild look in her eyes; but she had laughed and smiled and called herself Nimloth.

_White flower_, it meant. It suited her. 

“_Dior_!” A part of him wished to remain unmoved, to stay still where he sat by the roots of a tree, tucked away from sight. He could stay a thousand years and no one would find him, but he could not do that. Not to her.

And so reluctantly, a little hesitant, he opened his mind to hers. First a soft brush, then a touch, and eventually she answered. She found him within seconds, and he felt her hands cradling his face before he could see her: 

“Oh, my love. . .” she whispered, crouching down to meet his eyes. He could not bring himself to look at her, even as she tried to urge him to. Thankfully, she understood this, and instead took his hands into her own, cooing softly. “Your hands are cold. . .” Staring down at them, he saw that they were a pink colour, almost red. But he still could not feel the chill in the air. 

“You must come,” she whispered gently. “You cannot stay here. . .” _Because you are half mortal_, he could almost hear her say in her mind. Or perhaps full. No matter, Men do not fare as well as Elves do in the cold. 

He continued to stare down at his hands. 

“Dior?”

At last, he found the strength and courage to meet her gaze, and immediately regretted it when their eyes met. In her eyes he saw many things: grief, sorrow and sadness all mended into a single form. But in them he could also see pity, and much to his shame realised it was directed at him. The tears streamed down his cheeks before he could even consider stopping them. 

Nimloth’s eyes widened in worry, and for a moment it seemed as if she was unsure of what to do. What _should_ one do when someone weeps before them? Such things were never taught. She was quick to her senses, though, and pulled him to his feet where she embraced him tightly. It was nice, her body was warm against his, but it did nothing to soothe the clawing feeling that burned in his chest.

“Come. . .” she whispered, kissing his cheek. “Come now, my love, let us go home. Grieve now, grieve tomorrow, but do not grieve here. . .” He felt like a child, falling for a soft, sweet voice. He listened to each word intently like it was a lullaby being sung into his ear. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, feeling hopelessness wash over him. What _was_ there left to do? Wait? Wait for what and until when? Wait for who? 

“_Rest_,” she breathed. “Sleep. Talk. Talking helps...” 

Did it? He did not _feel_ like talking. 

“The children have been asking about you.” She whispered, and he startled. The boys, big enough to practice archery now; one gentle and the other cold. Elwing, still a babe tucked away in her nursery. Elwing who loved to listen to him sing. How could he have forgotten about _them_? “They wondered why you didn’t come to their bed last night to tell them a story..”

Dior swallowed. “Do they know?” He didn’t need to specify what.

Nimloth shrugged. ”They must have figured it out by now,” she smiled, slightly sad. “They’re a lot smarter than people would like to believe. I worry sometimes, you know. They don’t behave like _children. _As if...as if they’re wiser beyond their years. . .”

Dior thought for a moment. It would not surprise him if they were. His grandmother’s blood worked in different ways. His mother had inherited much of Melian’s power, his uncle slightly less, and Dior something little to fiddle with. The boys had surely not been immune to its properties, and he wondered how it would affect them as they would grow. It was a blessing, just as much as it was a curse.

The walk back to the palace was mostly silent. The guards exchanged no words with him as they passed through the gates that led into the caves, and Dior almost shivered in relief when he heard the doors shut behind him; drowning out the singing of the rain. He was greeted with mostly silence, and in the distance were the echoes of laments sung by Elven choirs. 

Many people turned their heads to stare at him as he passed, but he could not care less about what he looked like to them. Soaking wet, unkempt hair and dark-circled eyes. Thinking about it, he must have appeared half mad, and he supposed he was for the moment. 

No one could _dare_ blame him.   
  


The palace was not truly a _palace_. A large tree, larger than any tree Dior knew existed, stood in the centre of the cave and within it were carved hundreds of rooms and stairways that led one to what seemed like infinite halls. They passed many servants, all who kept their heads bent and bowed, and Dior could not help but feel a twinge of sadness. 

These servants had known his mother, they had grown to love her. His mind thoughtlessly strayed to the woman who had raised him, who had been so _perfect_ in every single possible way. He wondered what she must have been like as a child, a small maiden dancing through misty halls; humming to the tune of a song no one but she could hear. What a darling she must have been– the precious jewel of the Sindar. He thought of his grandfather, who had died for the sake of a much different jewel, and felt sad again.

Dior pondered whether he had tried to replace her, knowing she would never return to him. Perhaps Thingol had tried to fill in the empty hole she had left behind, thinking the Silmaril could be more of a comfort than burden. How quickly he had learned of its curse; quickly but all too late. 

When Dior entered the bedroom that he and Nimloth shared he was greeted by a comforting sight. The boys slept soundly upon their bed, tucked amidst blankets and sheets of pearly silk. He smiled and approached them with soundless steps, careful to not wake them in their slumber. Eyes closed, just as the way of men.

Nimloth came to stand beside him, her hand resting comfortably upon his shoulder: 

“I sang them to sleep,” she whispered with a faint smile pulling at her lips. “They wouldn’t stop complaining. I suppose your voice is much lovelier than mine.”

Dior pulled her into his arms, resting his head atop of her own in hopes he could banish some of the sadness that still tugged at his heart. “Your voice is the loveliest I’ve ever heard. . .” Not entirely a lie. The fairest voice he had ever come to love was his mother’s, but Nimloth’s was undoubtedly second. 

Silence reigned for a short while. It was comforting and it distracted him. One could not hear the pounding of rain within the thousand caves that made Menegroth. It was a city that would be impossible to breach, but Dior was not a fool. The impossible could happen. He himself was the very proof of that. 

Nimloth broke it, her eyes distant as she spoke: “What will you do?”

He raised a brow, confused for a moment: “_Do_?” 

She craned her neck to look at him, her eyes like twinkling stars. Then, her gaze strayed to the very thing in the room he had struggled to ignore. A wooden box, beautifully carved, that had been left abandoned upon his desk.

An elf servant had brought it to him a day or two ago, but even before that Dior had already felt his mother’s death. He had _felt_ it.   
  


Dior had not touched it since that day, and he dreaded to open it. 

“It’s yours by right,” she whispered, her hands coming to cradle his face, her touch soft although her fingers were calloused. _Was it_? His parents had certainly paid their lives for it, his grandfather as well, and his mother had worn it until she died. 

Slowly, he let his arm fall from Nimloth, and with hesitant steps approached the wooden box. Each step felt heavier than the last. He felt as if he stood alone, as if he was approaching his doom and that darkness was consuming him slowly. The box was all that he could see.

There was a strange voice in the air, distant and foreign, it took him moment to realise that the _Silmaril_ was singing to him. It was urging him forward. It was not a pretty sound: Dior had heard fairer music before, but it was a tune nonetheless. A voice that reminded him of a breathy mist, or the distant humming of stars. He reached a hand towards it, but just as the song had begun it ceased, and he returned back to reality; pulling his hand back swiftly as if he had been burnt.   
  


“Dior?” Nimloth asked, quickly coming to stand beside him. “Dior? What is it?” 

He shook his head, turning away from the box that now taunted him. “Nothing,” he whispered, running his hand through tangled hair. It was still damp. He gazed lovingly into her eyes, and hoped that the smile that he offered her was not strained: “I’m simply tired... I think I need a bath.” He paused. “And sleep.”

She smiled, almost in relief, and leaned up to place a tender kiss on his cheek. “You do that, then, my love...” she said, her voice hovering above a whisper. But still, he could not help but fret, and knew that neither sleep nor a bath would help soothe his worries. 

The jewel still sang to him, and he hoped to the Valar that it would not drive him mad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dior/Maedhros is perhaps one of the rarest and oddest ships in this fandom, but it remains to be one of my absolute favourites. The grandsons of Elwë and Finwë, it sounds so clichè and yet so perfect.  
The fic is rated mature because of future chapters 
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	2. A Hollow Song

Dior dreamt of his parents. 

It had seemed so very real. He had been a child once again, running through the clearings of a forest near his childhood home, with the sun shining as molten gold. In the distance there had been birds singing, along with the echoey laughter of his father ringing in his ears. Once it had been a memory, now it seemed nothing more than a distant dream.

He had dreamt of running freely, bare feet light against the summer earth, before feeling a pair of strong arms grab him by the waist and lift him from the ground; spinning him round and round until he saw nothing but bright light. 

“Come, treasure,” his father had murmured against his hair. “Your mother awaits.” Turning his head, Dior glimpsed her figure in the distance, standing by the post of their house’s entrance. _House_, he liked to call it, even though it was nothing more but a cabin. She was smiling, her grey eyes like shimmering stars and black hair whispering above her shoulders. She had cut it before he had been born, and never bothered to let it grow thick and fair again. 

He had always found it odd, comparing her to the the elf-maid written down in legend. Tinúviel, they would call her. The fairest of all beings. Tinúviel with her pearly white feet and twilight, splendid hair. To him he had been nothing but _naneth_. Naneth who used to sing and cook and tell stories. Naneth who would kiss his scratched knee and call him ‘starlight’. 

_Naneth_. . .

She and his father had raised the cabin before he had been born. They said they had wanted to escape: To spend the remainder of their days, whatever little there was left, in peace. Dior remembered the cabin as he would his ten fingers. Small but homely, always warm, and always bathed in sunlight. He remembered his father’s hunting bow, propped neatly by the entrance, and he recalled the kitchen, an open space that connected to the living area and entrance. His mother would keep pots of flowers upon the window seats so that the house was decorated in bright colours, and no matter what the curtains were always drawn. 

Most of all he remembered his own bedroom, located next to his parents’. It had been small, the bed a simple twin-sized, and cramped. As he had grown older, his feet would dangle over the edge. No matter, he had loved it still. Even now he preferred it to the empty chambers of Doriath, that were often cold. Sometimes, the king sized bed felt lonely, even when Nimloth slept soundlessly beside him. 

In the dream his mother had been singing. That was all she ever did. She would sing and laugh, run her fingers through his hair; unthreading each tangle she could find whilst humming to a tune. At nights she would tell him stories, some true and others made up, and she used to make the best rabbit stew. But the one thing she had loved to do was dance. She had taught him to dance before he had learned to walk. 

He saw her face, still young with not a touch of age, and felt a deep ache. _Don’t leave_, he almost called after her when she turned away. Suddenly, the sun didn’t seem so bright anymore, and he was no longer in his father’s arms. He too was gone. There was nothing left but the cold. 

“_Dior_?”

Startling awake, Dior gasped for breath, finding it terribly difficult to breathe. Nimloth loomed over him, her face caught in distraught, with one hand placed gently upon his chest. His clothes stuck uncomfortably against his skin and his legs were tangled in between sheets. 

The room was bathed in darkness. Nimloth was the only source of light he could see, her face a pearly shimmer. She seldom would let her hair loose, always keeping it neatly tucked away in a braid, but now it toppled down her shoulders like the purest silk. Alas, even the sight of her did not bring him comfort. He feared nothing ever would again. It was as if his lungs were being squeezed together, so tightly it made it difficult to relax. 

He closed his eyes. _Breathe, Dior, breathe_... but still, he could hear his mother’s voice, echoing in the back of his mind. 

“Dior? Beloved?” Nimloth whispered, her hand cradling his face. At last, his muscles gave in, and he found himself sinking into the bed. _Maybe it’ll swallow me_, he thought himself. He would not mind it, drifting into the void that is. Maybe then he would stop feeling so much. 

Then, suddenly, startling both her and himself, he sprung up to sit. She gasped, drawing her hand swiftly back as though he would attack her, but quickly took ahold of herself, frowning ever lightly at his sudden reaction. “What is it?” She asked, shifting so that she could properly face him. Dior stared at the wall, with a look on his face as if he had been told the true meaning of life. 

“The necklace,” he whispered, as if it was something obvious. She frowned. 

“What?”

”Necklace,” he repeated, turning to her with wide, alarmed eyes. If Nimloth didn’t know him well, she would have judged him to be mad. “The necklace. The jewel—“ Abruptly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, quickly dashing across the room in the speed of light. Nimloth barely had any time to register what he was doing because before she could even muster a reaction he had returned to the bed again, cradling something in his hands. 

As he sat down by the bed he immediately noticed the curiosity that washed over her face; before realisation dawned. Inquisitive, Nimloth crawled forward to where he was sat and peered over his shoulder with an unreadable expression. Slowly, with shaking fingers, he did the very thing he had been dreading to do from the start: 

He opened the box. 

Instantly, the room was bathed in pure, white light. A gasp escaped his lips, but neither of them noticed it, for their eyes were set on the gem within. A thousand stars could not outmatch its brightness, and Dior would not have been surprised if Varda’s very essence stood present in the room. 

No amount of candles could have lit it the way the jewel did, and Dior found himself breathless. A thousand voices danced around them, all breathy and wondrous and ethereal. It was as if he was hearing the voices of the Ainur, the very song they had sung to create Arda, before Melkor’s dark tune tainted its purity. 

He could hear his mother’s voice: Beautiful and warm.

A strange emotion took ahold of him. _Delight_, he noted. _Pride_. It was a wave of ecstasy. The jewel was singing, it was singing to _him_. He felt joy, he felt warmth and—

Greed. 

Something small and yet so loud, like an itch he could not reach. Hubris was clawing at his throat. Suddenly, the voices were not so beautiful anymore. They had turned ugly, both scratchy and hollow. The song was not a song but a warning. They were warning him, he realised. The voices were warning him: Of doom and death and destruction. They were _taunting_ him. 

His eyes widened in raw horror, and just as the light had appeared it was gone as Dior snapped the box shut, panting for breath.

Nimloth blinked, lost, and looked at Dior with a startled expression.

“Why did you do that?” She asked, sounding nothing like herself. Less sweet. More feral. Quickly, she made a move as if to snatch him from his grasp, only for him to stretch it away. Anger washed over her face, and she clawed at his forearm, trying to reach for it: “Open it!”

Startled, Dior stood up, not knowing what else to do. She was shorter than him, almost a head and therefore could not reach it as he held it above his head. He never thought she would _push_ him. “Open it, Dior, I am not jesting!”

”Nimloth?” He whispered, wondering why the jewel’s magic had not already left her as it had him. “Nimloth, wake up—”

”Open the box, Dior!” She hissed, scratching on his robes, trying to grab it. He refused, pulling away each time she would stretch. 

“Nimloth—“

”Open the box!”

Suddenly, she leapt at him, so harshly that both of them tumbled down to the ground. His back collided against the floor first – his head promptly following – and he groaned at the collision.

It took him a moment to realise that she was on top of him, still trying to reach for the box. Confused, he tried to force her off of him. It was difficult to see her properly in the dark. Finally, he managed to shift so that he rolled on top of her, and quickly staggered onto his feet before she could. 

She was a huntress. A warrior. She had trained twice the many years he had lived. When it would come to hand-in-hand combat, he did not need to think twice to decide who would win. 

“Nimloth, please _listen_—“ 

But she refused to. Again, she lunged towards him and he had to duck away in fright. His head shot to the side as sharp pain stung his cheek, and it took him a moment to realise she had slapped him. Only when his back hit the wall behind him did something in her eyes shift, and she froze as a deer where she stood. 

“Ada?”

Both heads turned slowly towards the door frame as a wave of shock washed over them; neither having noticed the small figure standing by the entrance.

_Elurín_. His silver hair was loose and reached just below his shoulders. In his arms he clutched tightly onto a little stuffed fox he had been gifted by his grandfather Beren as a birthday present almost five years ago. _Birthday_, not begetting. Dior’s father had never understood the Elven way of celebrating one’s coming to the world.

Guilt washed over Nimloth’s face in a wave of emotions and startled she lifted both her hands to cover her mouth. Tears gleamed in her eyes as she shifted her gaze from Elurín to Dior. 

“_Oh_,” she whimpered. “Oh, no. . .”

Hesitantly, Dior raised his hand to touch the spot she had hit him. Most of the pain had already faded. Hesitantly he approached her, placing the box down before their feet. She could barely look at him even as he stood inches from her. 

“Nimloth?”

”I’m sorry,” she gasped, hands shaking. “I’m sorry, I - I don’t know what happened. . .”

_The jewel_, he almost answered. He did not. He knew she was thinking it too. 

“I had a nightmare,” Elurín whispered, visibly confused by his parents’ odd behaviours. His eyes shifted from one to the other, a little uneasy. “I wanted to come sleep with you but I heard noises—“

”Come,” Dior immediately said, hoping that he could shrug away what had just happened. Elurín was quick, he dashed across the room and into his father’s arms where he nuzzled his face. “Everything’s alright, don’t worry...”

Briefly, Dior met Nimloth’s gaze and hoped she could see that he forgave her. _It’s alright_, he whispered to her, softly brushing against her mind. _It’s not your fault_. Hesitating, he continued: _I felt it too._

Whatever _that_ had been. A thought suddenly came to Dior, one that was equally as mad as it was sane. As he stared soundlessly up at the ceiling, feeling Elurín soft breaths against his throat, he made a decision. 

All he needed was someone literate who could help him. 

• • •

It was safe to say that Dior felt _awkward_ standing where he was. A king should not need to knock, but he had not been raised as a prince. Courtesy was something his parents had both been strict about. Shifting nervously on his two feet, he waited patiently for the door to be answered.

He was worried, of course he was, not just for his own well-being but judgement as well. Surely, the majority of Menegroth’s population would disagree with what he wanted to happen. He could _not_ bring the subject to a council meeting, the sole reason being that his councillors would go _berserk_ at the mere mention of it. No, this had to be kept a secret. No one but Dior’s most trusted advisors could speak in this matter. 

Which is why Dior stood where he was.   
  


Just as if he was about to leave, convinced that no one would answer, the door suddenly opened. Expecting Celeborn, he was startled to be greeted by Galadriel, half dressed in night robe with her golden hair wild and unkempt. If he was not mistaken, he glimpsed a _bruise_ on her neck, just below her jaw. 

“Your majesty,” she said, not startled but neither embarrassed. Dior was convinced that nothing could fright the woman. “What a pleasure.” She did not _sound_ pleased, but he decided to ignore that. 

He swallowed, pinching on his wrist. It was a bad habit he had picked up when he was little, one that he always did when he was uncomfortable in a situation or awkward. “Artanis,” he greeted formally. He had never been able to bring himself to call her Galadriel. _Alatáriel_ was even worse. “Is Celeborn present?”

She nodded, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Celeborn, much to his relief, was at the very least properly dressed. Dior would not be surprised if the elf would wake at the crack of dawn every morning, ready to present himself as an Elven prince of the Sindar court.

He immediately stood up at the sight of Dior, and bowed his head as a sigh of respect: “My king,” he greeted, rising back up at Dior’s strained smile. “Is there something wrong?”

Dior tucked his hands behind his back, clearing his throat: “You are learned in writing and reading, correct?” 

Celeborn looked startled for a moment but nodded anyway, “Yes, my king, that I am.” Galadriel had taken a seat upon the bed, watching the two of them curiously with her wise, grey eyes. 

Drawing in a deep breath, he continued: “I am in need of an assistance.”

Celeborn raised a fine brow: “Of writing?” He asked, suddenly more interested than confused. “I apologise, my king, but _why_? Never have you had any reason to read or write—“

”I’m not asking to learn, Celeborn,” Dior answered him, having to shove down the ‘sorry’ that sat unpleasantly on his tongue. _Do not apologise_, he reminded himself. _You are a king. You have every right to interrupt_. “I’m asking you to write _for_ me.”

Silence dwelled for a short moment. 

“To whom?” 

Dior shifted on his feet and pinched his wrist. “That is none of your concern,” he paused. “Although you will find out soon enough. Will you help me or not?” Celeborn paused, turning to Galadriel as if to ask for permission, and only when she had given a thoughtful nod did he nod as well. 

_Weird_, Dior thought to himself. He would comment about whatever _that_ had been later. Celeborn strode proudly across the room towards his desk, where Dior presumed he kept all of his equipments. 

Slowly, the peredhel trailed after him, curious at all the feathered quills and different bottled inks. Some ink was black and others blue, Dior even glimpsed a shade green, deep red and one that appeared slightly indigo.

Celeborn took a seat before the desk, and prepared everything with swift, graceful movements. Immediately he began scribbling something. 

“What are you doing?” Dior asked. He had not said anything yet, so there was no need for a Celeborn to start writing. Much to his confusion, his cousin simply smiled and laughed lightly: 

“Testing the quill, making sure I don’t use too much ink,” he quickly ridded himself of the parchment and picked up a new one, clean and perfectly straight. Dior watched the way Celeborn held the quill. A gentle and nimble grip, not tightly as one would a sword or a bow. Suddenly, Dior felt the sudden urge to write himself and felt shameful that he could not. 

“Alright,” Celeborn said. “Speak away.”

Dior hesitated. How to start? He could already envision for himself what would come next. The smile dropping from Celeborn’s face, a cold emotion washing over Galadriel’s hard gaze. He could picture Celeborn standing up, refusing to write. Then Dior was reminded that Celeborn_ could not_ refuse. Not to his king, lest he would want to stir trouble. 

And so clearing his throat, he began:

_”Maitimo Maedhros,_

_I do not know how to put these thoughts of mine into words, but I will try. News spread fast, so I assume that you have already heard of my parents’ passing. The Silmaril, the jewel that your father crafted and my parents took from the crown of Morgoth, is in my possession, and it would seem that my people expect it to stay that way. _

_I have no true desire to keep it. Truth to be told, I would rather be rid of it. Therefore I bid you to come to Doriath, that is Menegroth, and retake what I claim to be yours. I will assure your full safety and protection whilst within my borders. No harm is to come to you, you have my word on that. I also hope to be able to discuss other matters, matters that I will care to speak of with you face to face. _

_I hope that this letter won’t come off as abrupt. I only wish to establish peace, and for there to be no rivalry between our people. Golodh or Sindar, we are all Elves are we not? I pray that you will consider this offer, and that by the end of this all, one of your many burdens will come to rest. _

_Sincerely, _

_Dior Eluchíl, King of Doriath_.”

By the time he had finished his sentence Celeborn’s quill snapped in two. The silence that came to reign was thick of tension, and Dior had not the strength to turn and look at Galadriel. He could picture her fuming. Instead, he kept his eyes set firmly on Celeborn, praying to the Valar that he would be able to keep his steadiness. _I am King_, he tried to remind himself. 

“Would that. . . be all?” Celeborn’s voice was distant, cold, but it was not cruel. Not to him. Dior twitched is fingers, trying his best not to quiver as Celeborn turned to face him with stern eyes. He nodded: 

“Yes, thank you.” Quickly, he snatched the parchment from the desk, trying his utterly best to not squirm beneath his kinsman’s gaze. Dior could not read, but by the amount of letters written down Dior could only assume that Celeborn had followed his orders. He had written down every word Dior had uttered, even though he did not want to, and Dior could respect that. Admire even. Swiftly, Dior paced through the room, longing to get far, far away from the two Elves who looked as if they wanted to skin someone alive. 

His heart was pounding harshly against his chest. 

But before Dior exited the room he was reminded of something: “Oh. I expect neither of you to tell anybody about this,” he said, clutching tightly onto the piece of paper in his hand. “I’m sorry for the trouble. Please, have a nice day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are loved & appreciated!


	3. Three Days

A fortnight passed unanswered. At first, Dior grew hopeless, confident that the lord of Himring had simply not bothered reading the letter, or perhaps never received it. He had even felt a little foolish. _Writing to the Fëanorians— what were you thinking_? The proud Ñoldorin princes, old and noble, probably too good to even bother considering his words. But just as he had grown fruitless and given up, a messenger came to his chambers disheveled – visibly shaken – clutching onto a rolled parchment with a trembling hand. The paper was sealed with an eight pointed star. The sigil alone sent a shiver down his spine. 

Dior had thanked him hastily before shutting the door in the poor elf’s face. Not out of rudeness but rather excitement, concern even. An answer, _finally_ an answer. Only fourteen days had passed, but each day had felt the tenfold of another. At some nights, Dior had even struggled to sleep; too worried and restless to allow his mind any sweet peace. He had felt regret, more than once. _Should I have sent the letter_? Came the most common question of doubt. _Is the Silmaril truly mine to keep_? 

But even now he could hear the jewel singing in the back of his mind, a faint echo, or a whisper that tried to lure him into a trap. He had tossed the wooden box in the far back of the closet, beneath piles and heaps of clothes, in hopes of blocking out most of its accursed song. Nimloth had looked at him questionably. She couldn’t even hear a single note, nonetheless a song. _It was the light_, she had told him. _The beauty of it was what captured me_. 

But Dior could hear it, and it was more of a screech than a tune. Like thousands of screams all merged to form a rhythm, a symphony of haunting voices that sighed and wailed to whoever could hear them. Their cries must have fallen onto deaf ears for years, until now. 

Nevertheless, there was one thing he was confident about. He was _not_ going to keep the damn thing. 

Leaping onto his bed, almost too giddily to be considered ‘kingly’ or formal, his fingers moved to unfold the paper before hesitating. What if it wasn’t a good answer? What if Maedhros had taken the letter as an insult, and threatened to skin Dior alive, or perhaps hang his pretty head upon a spike and pin it upon his cold fortress? Dior did not know much of the sons of Fëanor, but he knew people who did. His mother had spoken ill of two of them, and if he didn’t know better Galadriel disliked _all_ of them. They weren’t good people, that had been made clear to him. 

_Kinslayers_, they were called. Suddenly, the fear began to kick in again. Would they ever dare commit the sin twice?

Gnawing on his bottom lip, Dior stood up to pace around the room, still clutching tightly onto the sealed parchment. Dior had a strange feeling that a lot had been written down. A part of him didn’t want to seek out Celeborn or Galadriel, knowing that they would not be pleased, but there was no one else he could fully trust. Most of the council didn’t already inform him of all the tidings; whenever he would ask of news or other matters they would always sugarcoat the subjects for him, thinking that he would not notice the strains in their sweet smiles. Offering the letter to his other councillors could risk false translations; and Dior did not want that. He needed the truth. No matter how much Galadriel disliked her cousins, she would never hide the truth. 

Letting out a heavy sigh, Dior went to search for them. 

• • •

Galadriel’s grey eyes were as hard as stone as they scanned over the paper. Dior fidgeted where he stood, pinching and pulling at his wrist whenever she would raise a brow or clench her jaw. Celeborn stood close behind her, peering down her shoulder. He was reading the letter himself with a neutral expression, neither furrowing his brows or moving his lips. He had always been good with putting on masks. Neither of them had said a word.

Then, Galadriel drew in a deep breath, and her aged gaze met his: “There is no going back now,” she said, crossing her legs. “I hope you understand that. Maedhros has received your letter. He has read it and he has answered. He knows that you have the Silmaril.” 

Dior clasped his hands together, hoping he did not appear uncomfortable. “Yes.”

Where he had expected a frown or even a glare he received a simple, curt nod. Then, she began her translation: 

“_Eluchíl, _

_You have my condolences. The news of your parents’ passing were ill to hear. I was not aware of my father’s jewel being in your keeping, but I am now. I appreciate you informing me of this matter, and respect that you have decided to cooperate. Already you seem much wiser than your grandfather was. _

_I accept your offer. You have given me your word, and oaths are not taken lightly. I assume that you will keep your promise of safekeeping and I will tell you that I have established terms of my own. My brothers are to accompany me to your kingdom, along with a handful of my personal guards. Their safeties will be assured, just as much as mine, and no fee will be exchanged for the jewel. The Silmaril is ours by rights. I do not expect to pay for what was stolen from us. _

_I thank you for your honesty and trust that you will heed my terms. We will come swiftly. By the time you receive this letter, we are no less than three days away from crossing your borders. I trust that you will keep your word. Farewell until then. _

_Maedhros Nelyafinwë_.”

Dior let out a quivering breath just as Galadriel finished. His knees almost buckled beneath him. Three days — three days was _not_ enough. . . Of course the damn lot of them would come swiftly, what had he expected? For them to _wait_? They, who had been slowly crushing beneath the weight of their burden for years, now at last given the chance for release? Still, it was too overwhelming for him to comprehend within seconds.

”My king,” Celeborn then said, his voice stern. “You must inform the council of this matter. If the sons of Fëanor are to pass our borders without any warning, the people would most likely take it as a threat or an attack. You have given them your _word_ of safe protection. If our men should defend with weapons, you have broken your word.”

”I know!” Dior said, startling even himself for having raised his voice. He cleared his throat softly, and in a much gentler tone repeated: “I _know_. I - I’ll tell them. . . I’ll tell them now — I didn’t know they would come so soon. . .” He paced around, trying to ignore Galadriel’s heated gaze that stripped him down. He feared she was reading him as an open book, delving into each flaw and imperfection she could come to see. 

Celeborn joined his pacing, staring down at his own feet with an unreadable expression. “_My brothers are to accompany me_. . . All of them?” He turned to Galadriel, this time his eyes were worried. “The people will not welcome Celegorm and Curufin—“

”The people won’t welcome _any_ of them,” she corrected him, at last turning to speak to Dior: “My king, what was your reason for this? Surely, you could’ve sent the Silmaril to them in a box as you received it? What need was there of inviting them to your kingdom, to your _halls_?”

Dior paused, considering his answer wisely. “Because there are broken bonds that need to be mended,” he looked at Galadriel. “Our grandfathers were great friends, and I’m told that both of them were great kings. They are your family, are they not? I’m sure there are things you would wish to discuss with them.” 

Suddenly, she looked _very_ angry. “I have nothing to talk to them about!”

”Then don’t,” Dior answered, almost wearily. “But Morgoth only grows stronger. A war is coming, I don’t know when but I can _feel_ it deep in my bones, in the roots of the trees and the whispers of the wind. It’s coming, and we can’t fight against the Dark Lord divided.” 

Silence settled for a short, tense moment. There had been a war, a few years before his birth; Dior had only heard wary whispers of it. Both Elves and Men had united against the Enemy’s forces, and the numbers they had lost had been fatal. The proud men of Dor-lómin had been cruelly wiped out as a candle in the wind, and the war before that one the House of Bëor. _Nirnaeth Arnoediad_, they had called it. _Battle of Unnumbered Tears_. 

“You wish to discuss a union?” 

Dior almost turned away. _Almost_. He held their gazes instead, tucking his hands behind his back so that he could pinch his wrist without their notice. ‘Union’ was not a term he would have liked to use. “An _alliance_. There is only one enemy, and it is _not_ the sons of Fëanor,” he whispered. “I know that you think ill of them, believe me, I have no love for the people who mistreated my mother. But we can’t hold grudges. . .” He paused. “You must admit that they would make a good ally.”

She didn’t answer for a while. “I hope you realise what you’re doing,” she whispered. 

He looked at her steadily for a moment. “So do I.”


	4. Sleep Well

Grey, wide eyes peered up at him like twinkling stars. Dior cooed, softly, as they frowned in curiosity; and laughed when a fat fist came to clench around his hair. Elwing was the darling he could only have hoped for. He had dreamt of her face even before her birth, and in both spirit and body she was _perfect_. 

Little did she resemble his mother, and yet she reminded him of her. Some of the people even whispered it was their Lúthien Tinúviel reborn, but Dior never cared to listen to such blasphemy. No, Elwing was her own person. It would be ill to press such high expectations upon a soul so young; Dior was still struggling to live up to his own. 

The small babe tugged onto his hair, drawing it to her mouth before chewing on it so that Dior laughed aloud. The mere _sight_ of her brought joy to his heart. 

Whenever he became too stressed he always found great comfort in Elwing’s nursery. The nurses and servants would always flee at the sight of him, giggling and whispering inaudible words to one another, so that he was left in the presence of his daughter and his daughter alone. Only two months of age, she was still too small and frail to sit upright. All she could do was giggle and squeal, sometimes even choke with laughter whenever her brothers would come and tickle her toes.

That’s how Dior liked it. If he could, he would keep all of his children as babies forever; with never the fear of them growing up. 

He had never understood the way his mother used to complain or fret whenever he would grow taller; the way she would frown and shake her head when he’d _beg_ to go hunting with his father. _You’re too young_, she had told him until she could tell him no more. He wondered whether his mother too had longed to be able to keep him a child forever, to keep him cradled in her arms until the end of times. At times, Dior wished it was so as well. The things he would do to be in her arms now— 

He did not turn when he heard the door open, knowing it was Nimloth even before she spoke: “How did they take it?”

Dior kept his gaze on Elwing and her shimmering eyes: “Well, none of them have yet conspired to usurp me, so I suppose it went better than expected.” 

Both of them had been equally as worried for the council’s reaction. The Sindar did not ‘dislike’ the sons of Fëanor- they _hated_ them. So of course, it was expected of them to be displeased with the sudden news.

Dior had half expected them to demand him off the throne, or change him to king consort and have Nimloth become queen regent; maybe curse his ill decision on his man-blood as he had heard so many whisper before. Some councillors had fruitlessly tried to persuade him to change his mind, but alas, all of their words fell onto half-deaf ears. There was nothing that could be done. Dior had already made his choice, and the sons of Fëanor were on their way. They were expected to arrive tomorrow evening, which is why Dior was in the nursery. He was overwhelmed with stress. 

It was as if he was surrounded by cold waves; completely at the sea’s mercy, being tossed and turned so roughly he could not breathe...

Nimloth came to stand behind him where he was sat, her silver hair pooling down his shoulders as she gazed down at Elwing with a sweet smile. The little princess was their pride and joy. Her birth had been a salve to the Sindar’s open wound, still healing from their former king’s tragic death. All three of his children were named in his honour.

Elwing had received her name minutes after her birth. It was an unusual thing, especially among Elves, to be given a name so early in life. The boys had not received theirs until they had been a year old, which was still too quick for some people’s liking. But when her sweet eyes had opened for the first time, like pools of molten starlight, Nimloth had uttered her name and Dior had loved it.

”She’s beautiful,” Dior cooed, more to himself than her.

“She looks like you,” Nimloth teased, grinning. Dior smiled sheepishly in return, but found himself disagreeing. She was beautiful, without doubt, but Elwing did not look like him- none of his children did. The boys had his twilight eyes and Elwing his dark hair, but all three had inherited Nimloth’s face. The face of the House of Elmo. Lúthien had poured almost all of herself into her only child, and Dior nothing into his own. _Good_, he thought to himself. Beauty was just as much of a curse as it was a blessing. 

Nimloth came to sit beside him on the cushioned sofa, and extending her arms asked: “May I?” A little hesitant, not wanting to let go of the sweet bundle of joy that squirmed in his arms, he passed the babe to his wife, who in return rocked her in her arms and smiled at the soft face. 

Then, Dior’s own smile faltered, and a grim thought came to him; one he had no thought of since his wedding nine years ago. He loved all of his children, deeply and truly, so much that he would sacrifice his own life for theirs if need be. He would not exchange them for the world, nor would he ever consider turning back time make sure they had never come to be, and _yet_ he felt a strange feeling shift in his stomach. 

They were his _children_, the twins big enough to learn how to ride horses and practice their archery, and yet he felt only a child himself. Thirty-six was not old, even for the race of men. He couldn’t help but wonder—

“Dior?” Nimloth asked, noticing the disturbance on her husband’s face. Dior wanted to kiss her concern away but smiled instead, hoping that it was more soft than strained: 

“It’s nothing,” he lied, leaning forward to brush Elwing’s cheek. “I’m just tired, that’s all. . .”

Nimloth’s eyebrows drew together in worry, and she raised a hand to cradle his face. “You’re always tired,” she whispered, fingers soft against his skin. “Yet sleep doesn’t help you. I fear that it isn’t your mind that needs rest but your spirit. . .” It wouldn’t surprise him if she was correct; he hadn’t felt himself in days.

_No_, he knew well that it wasn’t his spirit that needed rest. The jewel had taunted him for weeks now but there was more than that. Something was bothering him, and not even he knew what it was. 

• • •

That night, just like any other night, he could not sleep. Unlike any other night, the bed was cold, and the spot next to his empty. In the dark, Dior stared restless up at the ceiling, his mind too scrambled to try and force himself to sleep. Nimloth, although queen, was still one of the kingdom’s most skilled archers, and at times would need to attend her duties in protecting the borders. Scouting the woods for enemies was something she had done ever since she was young, and something she would continue to do until she would be forced to stop. No royal title would stop her. 

She would be gone for little less than a night and half a day, but nonetheless, Dior craved her still. Not necessarily _her_ but her presence, for the empty spot on the bed to be occupied. When alone, he couldn’t help but feel afraid; though afraid of what he was not so sure. Abandonment, perhaps. He had been abandoned more than once in the short time he had lived, and ever since his parents’ death the fear of it had only grown. 

Turning to his side, he squeezed his eyes shut, in hopes that doing so would help him fall asleep. It didn’t. He continued to toss and turn, throw the sheets away before pulling them back, and even stand to pace around the room; hoping it would make him sleepy. He tried... other methods as well; methods that had helped him before. But when he was finished he found that it too was no help. It had only left him hot and panting, a little sticky as well and not all of it because of sweat. 

Accepting defeat, Dior slipped soundlessly from the bed, feeling goosebumps rise on his skin at the contact of the cold air. The sound of bare feet filled the empty silence as he made his way to his personal bath chambers, where he drew himself a bath. It was a long progress, but he had time to spare. He had the whole night to himself. 

The smell of lavender consumed him whole as he unclogged the glass bottle, pouring the thick perfumed liquid into the clear water. Even in the dark he could see that it shimmered, and when he let himself sink into the hot water he felt his muscles ease beneath the surface. The natural hot water was one of the few things Dior had exploited when he first moved to Menegroth. Tol Galen had been a virgin earth, the pools and springs there had been as crisp and cold as ice.

When he was little, his mother had always laughed when he would squeal each time he came in contact with the cool waters. His hatred of baths had been accepted as reasonable, and whenever he would try and hide to avoid them she had never grown angry. Now, he loved baths. It was one of the only times he was truly left alone without the watchful and judging gazes of the royal court, making sure he behaved as the perfect king. Still, he longed to return back to the cold waters of Tol Galen, if only it meant it would bring his mother and father back. 

When finished, Dior quickly dried himself, the soft scent of lavender still hovering in the air and upon his skin. Slipping into a silk robe, he slowly made his way back to the bed, damp hair like a black curtain down his back. At last, he felt a hint tired, and longed to slip onto the soft mattress. But just before he was about to crawl beneath the sheets, he heard the faint echo of singing, and came to a halt. 

Turning his head, eyes wide, he followed the sound of the whispering tune. It hovered through the air as a wisp if wind, barely audible and yet so piercing loud. The closet was on the far opposite of the room, the doors tightly sealed shut. The room was entirely bathed in darkness, and yet he felt as if he could see the Silmaril’s bright light. Slowly, not sure why, Dior made his way towards the soft tune.

Each step felt like an eternity. 

His breath was stuck in his throat as he approached it, and his hand shook when he reached for the handle. The melody was louder now, scratchy and hollow; ugly and yet so alluring. Like a thousand screams, beaten into a single, trembling voice. He half expected there to be a demon on the other side, a tainted spirit that would grip his throat and squeeze all the air out if he would swing the door open. But when he turned the handle and opened it, he was greeted with nothing but darkness, and dead silence. There was nothing left of the song, not even a whisper. 

With a trembling gasp, Dior struggled to regain his breath. Running his hand through his hair, he closed his eyes in shameful relief. The sons of Fëanor were coming. In little less than a day they would be here and gone, taking their wretched jewel with them. Dior felt half guilty, submitting such a cursed object upon them, but he could not bring himself to care enough. He wanted the damn thing _gone_. 

He closed the closet door, but just as he was about to turn around he felt a cold hand grip his forearm, and _screamed_ in raw fear. 

“_Hey_,” a soft voice called, and he turned to meet Celeborn’s concerned gaze. Dior almost cried in relief at the sight of a familiar face but could not bring himself to stop panicking.

His cousin refused to let go of his arm, even as Dior tried to twist himself out of the strong grip, and held on tight until the king could breathe normally again. “What’s wrong?” He asked.

Dior felt shame wash over him at the question. He already felt miserable, knowing that people could clearly see that he was _not_ okay — he didn’t need Celeborn to think he was half mad as well. 

“Nothing,” he gasped out instead, ripping his arm out of Celeborn’s grasp, pinching his wrist to make sure that he was not caught in a dream. He turned his head to stare at the bedroom door from where Celeborn had entered. The door stood completely wide open, allowing warm firelight to pool into the room, banishing most of the darkness. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Celeborn frowned, raising a fine brow. “I knocked three times,” he said quietly, much to Dior’s shock. “I assumed that you were asleep, but when I entered I saw you staring into your closet with wide eyes, as if you saw a ghost,” he tilted his head. “_Did_ you see a ghost?”

“No. Of course not,” Dior said, rubbing his own bicep in vain attempt to calm himself down. A ghost? He felt his cheeks heat up at the idea of it. Did Celeborn think of him as a child? He _spoke_ to him as if he was a child. “I couldn’t sleep so I took a bath. I was about to get dressed.” It was a weak lie, but if Celeborn had noticed, he did not make a comment. 

Silence settled for a moment. 

“Why are you here?” Dior asked. 

Celeborn blinked, as if he himself was not so sure why, but quickly answered: “Nimloth asked me to check up on you before she left. Make sure that you’re alright.” Ee explained softly. “She said that you’ve had trouble sleeping... Is this true?”

Dior gnawed on his bottom lip, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “Yes.” He admitted quietly, before quickly adding: “Sometimes. Usually when I feel too stressed or overwhelmed. It’s not so bad- tea helps...” Another lie. It was _awful. _Not being able to sleep that is. It made his mind unfocused and blank. As if he was constantly caught in a dream and dared not awake.

Celeborn was silent for a moment. “Alright,” he at last answered, offering a half-hearted smile. “Then I suppose I ought to leave now. I apologise for the intrusion...”

He turned and walked away, but just before his tall figure disappeared through the doorway he turned to add: “Oh... and another thing: A messenger came to me with urgent news and asked that I should deliver them to you. The sons of Fëanor have already passed through the North-Eastern borders. It seems that our guests will come much sooner than anticipated. They’re expected to arrive midday tomorrow, not evening.” 

Dior was struck to the ground for a moment, not sure how to react to the news. If he had felt trapped before he felt even more now.

“Sleep well.” Celeborn then whispered before shutting the door, bathing the room in darkness, leaving Dior alone with nothing but his own thoughts and misery. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t really like this chapter, but hey hope you guys enjoyed it nonetheless. 
> 
> Tysm for the support, ily all.


	5. Sing in Glee

.Shadows danced all around them 

The woodlands were dark; branches alike black threads that spiralled into an unnerving and daunting nightmare. They were twisted as a maze, with narrow pathways that were scarcely visible through thick, decaying weeds and tangled roots; so discreet that it would not be difficult to stray away from the path. One could easily get lost in the murky gloom that threatened to swallow each and every one of them whole, and one could only wonder what would happen to such unfortunate soul: Whether madness would consume them first before the whispering darkness ever could.

The trees were the worst part. They were not at all like the ones in Aman; where each leaf and branch shimmered gold and silver. No, this forest was old and weary, the branches bent and twisted in odd, awkward angles and many of them naked or stripped. They stood out like crooked fingers, jagged and in pain. In the dark they almost appeared skeletal, and at times Maedhros would turn and stare at them anxiously, just to make sure they were not truly withered hands forgotten in time. 

It was as if he was walking through a graveyard.

The Sindar rangers that they had met a few hours ago were solemn and silent. Occasionally they would mutter inaudible words to each other before casting him and his brothers cold glares or sneers. It was safe to say that they were not fond of the new party, and Maedhros could hardly blame them. He hardly _cared_. The Sindar could continue living their content lives of lies, ignoring the shifting and changing world, the slithering darkness that grew ever so near and the terrors that only increased as the Enemy would grow stronger. Maedhros didn’t care- as long as they kept their promise of giving him and his brothers the Silmaril. 

The _Silmaril_. It was what they had come to Middle-Earth for, the reason for their suffering and justification for their losses. It almost felt like a cruel jest, having it so close in their grasps. Maedhros hardly wanted to believe it. He should have felt relieved, but something told him it wouldn’t be so easy...

He shook his head. _No_, he would not burden himself with such ill thoughts. The Silmaril _would_ be returned to them. The Oath _would_ be partly fulfilled, even though it was just one third of its weight. 

The forest grew thicker the further they would wade through the bent trees. He hardly saw any beauty in it, and wondered whether the trees had always been so lifeless, or if they had only begun to fade when their Queen departed years ago in her grief. _Queen. _He nearly scoffed. _Witch_, Maedhros would much rather call her. He trusted no Vala or Maia, pure-bred or not. The thought of their new King made him curious, but it also made him itch in his bones. 

Looking up, he tried to glimpse the sky through the thick branches, and saw that the heavens were painted in deep hues of red, orange and yellow. Dawn must have already passed some time ago, but only darkness seemed to reign within the forest’s walls. Not even the birds sang...

As if reading his mind, one of the Sindar spoke a few feet ahead of them: “The forest has grown dull after our princess’ death,” he said, startling some of Maedhros’ men and brothers. The ranger did not turn to them when he spoke, but his voice was grave and distant. “They grew crippled ever since she left these woods, and her feet no longer graced the forest-floor with her dance. It would seem that they sensed her parting from this world, and have at last grown lifeless in whole...”

Suddenly, Maedhros felt as if though he could hear the forest’s lament for the first, and felt a strange sadness wash over him. He was not sure whether it had to do with the way the Sinda had said it, or whether it was because for the first time he sensed the trees’ heavy sorrows, but it took ahold of him as a burden. He felt as if though he was being suffocated, slowly and inevitably consumed by the deep shadows of the weeping branches. 

Maglor looked around curiously, as if he too had only now noticed the solemn gloom in the trees. “Some say that one’s home is a reflection of its people...” he commented rather daringly. The twins visibly tensed at his words, and Maedhros had the urge to choke him into silence. _Fool_. He understood that Maglor had not meant any ill, but still, even he should have noticed the light insult in his sentence. 

However, the ranger did not react negatively as Maedhros half expected him to, but simply cast them a dull look: “Believe the saying to be true, then. Laughter has stilled in the realm of Doriath. It withered first at the loss of our prince, then died with our precious Lúthien.”

Maglor frowned deeply beside him, a strange look on his face. Maedhros decided he would ask him about it later. 

Suddenly, the two Sindar rangers came to a halt, and at last turned around to properly faced the sons of Fëanor along with their small, handful of guards. 

“We must blindfold you now,” the other one said in pure Doriathrin, taking out a torn fabric that would cover their eyes. Celegorm took a step back, and swift to anger he scowled: 

“Blindfold?” The question was spat out in Quenya. He turned to Maedhros with alarmed eyes, who in return looked ever neutral and composed. It _was_ a bizarre request, but completely reasonable as well. Apparently, Celegorm could not grasp that. “They will kill us when they get the chance — it was foolish of us to trust the letter. The old king was ever the coward, what difference is the new—”

”Silence,” Maedhros said, tired of the complaints, and immediately Celegorm’s mouth snapped shut. The lord of Himring would not speak ill of Doriath’s king in front of his people. Whether they understood Quenya or not, Maedhros would not dare stoop so low. Not when he was _so_ close to what he came for.

Turning to one of the Sindar, the taller of the two, he gave him a cold look. It was a warning. _Pull a knife on me, you die_. Fortunately, the ranger seemed to understand that, and nodded in slight fright and dull pride. 

The last thing he saw before darkness consumed him was Maglor’s worried gaze. _I trust you_, his brother’s voice whispered in his mind. _I hope you understand the risks you’r__e taking_...

Maedhros wanted to laugh. 

• • •

Dior wanted to throw up. 

Nimloth had not yet returned from her scouting, which meant that everything around him was spiralling into complete chaos. Servants would come to him and deliver news or questions, questions he could not answer: _My king, what rooms should we prepare for the sons of Fëanor? Should we have for them fresh and clean clothes after their journey? My king, what would you like for dinner? But would the Ñoldor like to eat that? My king the council would like to speak with you, should I dismiss them? My king, should you be wearing that? My king should we_—

Dior wanted to _scream_. He knew not what rooms to keep them in, he hardly believed what should be prepared for dinner was an important matter of discussion, he could not listen to what the council had to say lest he died of stress and he could _not_ care any less what he looked like at the moment. All he needed was—

He needed Nimloth. 

But she was not here, and everything was unwinding into exhaustive anarchy. The boys had already taken a bath _three_ times now, since they were always dirtying their robes and Dior was not present to keep them under control. Elwing was fortunately tucked away in her nursery, but every few minutes the nurses and maids would come up to him saying that she would _not_ stop crying, but he couldn’t go up to soothe her unless the servants would lose their absolute mentality. Not to mention that the accursed sons of Fëanor were half a day too early...

And to make matters worse: the corset that his stylist was trying to fit him in was two sizes too small. 

“Stop,” Dior said, startling the poor elf into fright. Quickly, he undid the laces, and almost gasped in blissful relief when it came undone. Tossing the corset aside, he slipped into a new set of robes instead, brushing away the assistance the servants tried to offer him. It was the fourth time he was changing, since many people did not share the same opinion on what and what he should not be wearing. The newest robes his stylist had picked out were mostly a soft shade of blue, in some places white and almost transparent. An odd combination, perhaps, but somewhat appealing. Dior could only hope that it was presentable enough for everybody's liking. When he began to button himself up his stylist, Mithlas, visibly cringed: 

“My king—“

”_What_?” Dior barked, a little too sharply and a tad too harshly. Mithlas flinched, and immediately Dior felt regret wash over him. _Breathe_. Drawing in a deep breath, he tried again in a much softer tone: “What is it?”

”Your robe. It’s inside out.” On any other occasion Dior would have blushed, but he had not even the will to react now. Instead, he quickly fixed his mistake and tried a second time. This time, he could not find himself able to fit the buttons through the holes. His hands were shaking. 

“Here,” one of his other servants said, stepping forth to gently do the job for him. Dior let him. 

He understood what they were trying to do, choosing a set of soft blue robes and have his hair loose and undone rather than braided, so that it hung as a wave of silk down the small of his back. They were trying to make him look like his mother. 

It wasn’t difficult. When Dior looked at himself in the mirror he had both the urge to stare at his own reflection for eternity and look away. Even his servants stood in complete and utter shock, staring at him as if he was their Lúthien returned to them again. Dior pinched his wrist uncomfortably. A dominating part of him yearned to ask for a different set of robes, but decided against it. Maybe it was for the best, having him dress up like his mother. This way he would get less complaints. 

“Right,” he said after a moment of silence, bringing everyone back to the present time. Softly clearing his throat, he continued: “Would this be all?”

Mithlas squirmed where he stood.

Dior almost sighed. “...it is _not_ all?” Mithlas, at the very least, had the generosity of offering him a smile. 

“Well, we – and I mean all of us...“ he waved his arms around at all the other servants, whose faces flushed at his accusations. “We have come to the decision that it might be best - if you approve of it, that is - if you...” he coughed, tugging at his own collar as if he was hot. “Well, we er.. we—“

”Mithlas please,” Dior said gently, “speak already, there’s no need to fear—“

”We think you ought to wear your mother’s jewel.” 

The silence that followed was thick with tension. Even if a hundred people would have stood within the room one could still have heard a needle drop. Dior knew not what to say. He felt like passing out. Worried about his lack of reaction, Mithlas was quick to add: 

“Only if you want to, my king, we’re not forcing you to, we’re simply advising – yes, _advising_ you to wear your mother’s jewel as a tribute to her; since this might be the last time you will be able to...”

Dior considered it for a moment. 

“I fear the sons of Fëanor might take insult,” he whispered, not sure what else to say. 

“But what does it matter?” One of the younger servants butted in, startling everyone. He flushed when they turned to him, but was bold enough to continue: “I mean... they’re going to get the jewel anyways, are they not? What harm can be done?”

Dior frowned, not at the servant but in general: “Do not underestimate the Ñoldor and their intemperate pride.”

”My king,” Mithlas began, offering Dior a begging smile. He was _begging_. “Please. This is all we ask. They take pride in their father and his creation; we advise you to take pride in your mother and her sacrifice.”

A strange feeling settled in his stomach. There it was again, the mention of his mother. He _did_ take pride in her, could they not see? He wondered what they saw when they looked at him. Did they see him as her son or an ever living reminder of her death? Would they some day come to view him with pride or would he be forced to live the remainder of his days succumbed in his grandfather and mother’s shadows? Suddenly he wasn’t so sure. 

Would wearing the jewel help? It certainly seemed to be something not only Mithlas wanted but his other servants as well – and what of the rest of the people? Was that something they cared to see? Was that all that needed to be done for people to not only see but treat him as _Eluchíl_? 

“I don’t know...” he hesitated, pinching his wrist. “Would that. . . would that be something you would like?”

Mithras nodded, almost eagerly, and the rest followed suit.

Dior wasn’t sure whether it was madness or stupidity, perhaps a little of both, but he found himself dumbly nodding with them. “Alright,” he whispered, even though every inch of his spirit screamed _no_. He tried to mirror the smiles that they gifted him but found that he could not. “Alright.” He simply repeated. “I will wear the jewel.”

In the distance he felt as if though he could hear it sing in glee. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely considered rewriting this chapter and having it solely focused on Dior, but we all need a little sneak peek of our favourite boys, do we not?
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! Ily


	6. Your Highness

He heard the Sindar’s halls before he saw them. 

It was the echoes of a thousand voices, all intermingled into an Elven hymn. The distant singing of waterfalls and kindling brooks soothed his ears, and the air that he breathed was sweet and fresh. It tasted of the forest floors and flowers, the damp morning following a rainy night and the twinkling stars on an abyss of a black tapestry. When the blindfold was gently untied from his eyes, he was surprised to find himself greeted by a soft, white light and _trees_. 

No, not the withering forests that made Doriath but actual _trees_. Trees that stood tall and proud, unbowed and unbent by neither wind nor rain, with silver leaves and elegant roots that wove through houses, statues still in time and polished streets. Looking around, he found it difficult to believe that he stood within the confines of a cave; and could not come to understand how waterfalls and forests fit inside hard, halls of stone. It was—

Beautiful. As much as Maedhros disliked the idea of complimenting the Sindar, he felt as if he had to give them credit for their kingdom; and their king for managing to uphold it with only the shadows of his grandmother’s powers. He knew not where the soft, white light was coming from, only that it was neither the streams of sun or stars. It was simply mythical, a breathless beacon he could not come to put into words. Magic was strong within the heart of the kingdom; he could feel it in his bones. 

Maedhros saw that his brothers, too, were at loss for words. Maedhros saw how Maglor stood peering up at the high pillars and balconies that stuck out from trees, balconies that belonged to houses carven from the inside; and how he listened intently to the eleven choirs that lamented and sung. He knew not whether his brother was appreciating the singing tunes or judging them.

Caranthir seemed to be pleased with the rich architecture and structures, and strangely enough Curufin was _not_ scowling. The twins stood tightly knit together, always fidgeting, always anxious. Their eyes darted all around the surroundings, as if enemies would sprung up from the shadows and behead them with great satisfaction. 

Alas, none were given the grace of admiring the foreign kingdom, for the two Sindar rangers were quick to urge them forward. “Come now,” the taller one growled, still not fond of simple courtesies. “We want this finished with as much as you, now _come_. Come, the king awaits you.”

They were led forward as prisoners, surrounded by guards that kept them in a tight, heated circle. Maehdros knew not if it was meant to keep them safe or rather the people.

High up in the trees, bathed in darkness, he noticed the sulking archers hidden in shadows. Only the fine tips of their arrows visibly gleaming from the gloom. Had Maedhros not dwelt in darkness himself for a very long time he would never have come to see them, but he supposed there were some costs to his years of torment. Still, he could not help but feel amused. The Sindar did not trust them... 

”They’re quite lovely, aren’t they?” Celegorm asked, grinning at a Sinda maiden who sneered at the sight of them. He laughed. “Perhaps no equal match to our own ladies, but _still_, lovely enough...”

Curufin looked around, admired a few bystanders here and there, before shaking his head. “No.” He disagreed rather bluntly. “They’re too slender, too _delicate_...”

Maedhros supposed that, in a way, he was right. The Sindar were not built roughly, with large muscles that would come in handy when crafting or blacksmithing; muscles that could _forge_ and sculpt. They were slender, built as narrow, young trees; fit for leaping, dancing and their silent archery. Not a typical Ñoldorin taste, but he could only imagine how hideous _they_ appeared to them in return; standing almost a head or two taller than most of their men, their bodies littered with deep and prominent scars.

”Do you think the king’s as pretty as Lúthien was?” Maedhros turned to Celegorm and glared, who barked out a snide laugh in return. “_What_? Can’t a man fantasise?”

”A man must have limits,” Maedhros said to him lowly, turning to see if any of the Sindar had caught his brother’s abominable words. Even though they spoke in Quenya it did not hurt to be cautious. “Whether the boy-king looks every bit alike his mother or not, you will not taunt him. _All_ of you will remain silent throughout the meeting, as was my order. I will not have any of you ruin this for us.” He almost said ‘me’, not ‘us’. Almost. 

Years spent in solitude sometimes made him forget that others stood in the present with him. His pride had been shattered, and it had taken years to rebuild it back. These days, the only things that mattered in life were things that affected him, and one of those things was the Silmaril.

He could almost see it for himself; his father’s most prized creations. 

Celegorm said something inaudible under his breath that Maedhros did not catch. Knowing it was most likely a snide remark that would get his blood boiling, he decided to ignore it. _Anger_ was also something that he had picked up after his rescue. Although it had been centuries ago it was still difficult to contain. If one would say the wrong words during the wrong time, they would unleash a caged fury that Maedhros did not even know he possessed. At times, it even scared _him_. 

Inhaling sharply, he craned his neck up at the palace. One could barely see the top of it, and could only wonder how far the enormous tree stretched. How _large_ the cave truly was; large enough to fit a city inside. 

Menegroth was not as impressive and bright as the old cities in Valinor. It was difficult to compare it to Tirion, his childhood home or Alqualondë, the Falmari kingdom he had spent many summers in during his youth; but it had its own unique fairness. Everything seemed so natural, as if the houses had been sung into their shapes, and the trees swayed and danced even though there was no wind. The citizens that would pass them were dressed lightly, for it seemed that no changing weather or season affected them in the confines of their safe haven. 

Within the Sindar’s dark halls, one did not feel as if they stood in Middle Earth. It was as if one had entered a different realm, safe and tucked away from the Enemy’s dark soldiers and creeping death. Maedhros could only imagine the toll their former King’s death had brought upon the people, and pitied them for having to endure their princess’ passing as well. Sure, they had not lost as much as the Ñoldor had, had not been exiled and banished, but they _had_ _lost_. 

Maedhros could, at the very least, respect that. 

• • •

Dior could not breathe. 

All air was slowly being squeezed from his lungs as the necklace clasped around his throat only gripped tighter and tighter. As the minutes would pass, his surroundings turned more hazy and Dior was left dazed and tired. It as if he was caught in a dream, everything so unsure and breathy. The servants that would pass him were alike whispering shadows, fluttering and dancing all around as if they were steady yet untamed flames. He did not notice the entranced stares they gave him; did not even realise how he was slowly ensnaring them one by one as the necklace was ensnaring him. 

The _voices_ were ever present, giggling and hushing one another. They no longer sounded raspy and hollow but soothing; as if they were teasingly lulling him into a gentle sleep, and he quickly learned to love their bent and twisted tunes. He felt himself being drained, nothing but a man completely at the jewel’s mercy, but he found that he did _not care_... Dior could not bring himself to take it off. 

_You must_, he thought to himself, his own voice almost drowned out by the hundreds of others. _That’s why they’re here_...

Ah, yes. The Sons of Fëanor. The cursed line of Finwë that _he_ had invited into his own halls. A wise man would seek to befriend them; to mend the broken friendship that their grandfathers had shared; to ally two great houses into a union that would surely last, but Dior did not feel like acting wisely.

Bringing a hand up to his neck, he lightly pressed a finger against the shimmering Silmaril. The jewel felt cold beneath his touch, and his fingers shook at the hard contact. For a faint second, Dior saw his mother dancing before him; the radiant jewel clasped around her own pretty neck, and her laughter mingling with the voices that sung to him. It pressed him further away from consciousness, and deeper into the illusion of her warm smile...

_Stay, _Dior tried to tell himself, drawing in a deep breath. Had he stopped breathing completely for a moment? _Stay awake, stay here_...

Closing his eyes he sang himself one last prayer in hopes that he could survive a few minutes more, before taking a daring step into the throne room. Whatever conversations had been present there before were quickly dimmed by his appearance, and like a wave of enchantment the people in the room turned and stared at him in dead silence. A strange wave of emotion shone in their eyes, and all released breathy sighs. 

Enchantment. Yes, _enchantment_ healed their weary hearts. For the first time in what felt like years old wounds were at last sewn together; and spirits and minds came to rest. A moment passed, then a minute, and none dared step forward and break the bitter yet sweet trance. 

He heard his mother’s voice, ringing distant and clear, and warmth spread over him as a still tide. He felt like a child again, drifting off into sleep, engulfed in her arms. He could almost feel the feathery touch of her lips upon his forehead, his father’s calloused hands tucking him into bed... For the first time in what must have been a year, Dior felt calm. 

Then, Galadhon moved, and bowed down so low that his silvery tresses brushed the ground. “My king,” he said, and as a wave the rest followed swiftly; pressing their hands against their hearts and bending their knees. _My king_, they all sang softly, all but Galadriel; whose grey eyes were hard and unmoving. 

The steps that he took felt heavy, but he had not the mind to notice how loud they rung. 

He approached her first before the throne, knowing well that she had something to say, and waited patiently for her to speak. Dior could not say that he trusted her, but he could say that he admired her council, and took her words seriously. When she finally did speak, her voice was low and stern, careful so that no other ears could hear: “If I were you, I would rip that jewel from my neck.” Dior waited but she said nothing more.

Hesitating only slightly, Dior gracefully made his way up the grand steps that led to the throne. Nevertheless, there _had_ been a hesitation, and it was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, clearing the fog that had gathered around him. The voices sounded hollow once again. He had the sudden urge to claw the cold stone from the throat, but _they_ kept him from doing so. They were _begging_. 

_They will beg no more_, Dior thought to himself, hoping to bring himself some comfort or relief. _I will not have to endure their taunting anymore_... Then why could he not help but doubt?

He shook his head and continued his way. The throne was carved out of wood, its armrests and legs delicately decorated as flowers and wild blossoms. The back was sculpted into the shapes of a hundred twines, each twine bearing unnumbered leaves.

When Dior took a seat upon it, the feeling was as strange as a foreign land, and no rest came to him. His grandfather had sat upon the very same seat in comfort and pride; adorned by breathless Elven grace and bathed in unmeasurable respect and glory. What was Dior compared to his proud image? A shadow of an old king’s dazzling light? 

A moment passed with him upon the throne before the court and noble folk below arose. They turned to smile at him sweetly with dazed expressions, as if for the first time they came to adore their new king – who before had been nothing but an young heir bound to the throne by blood. 

Only they weren’t smiling at _him. _They were smiling at the jewel. 

He pinched his wrist. He recalled having stared at his own reflection for almost an hour, wondering for what felt like years whether the face in the mirror was his own. He had barely been able to recognise the person that stood before him; had found it difficult to come to terms that it _was_ him. It had been a foreign sight, the reflection, as if he was seeing eye to eye with a stranger. 

Yes, it was his face, his hair and twilight eyes; but the light in which the jewel illuminated cast an unearthly glow upon him, so that it appeared as if he was not of flesh but rather an essence of the stars. At the jewel’s blessed light, he was a marvellous sight. _Dior_, he thought to himself, _Lúthien’s son_...

Did he remind them of their sweet Lúthien? He wore her colours, had her necklace clasped around his throat, and mused at the idea of dancing before the court. He _was_ learned in the art of dance, and was as familiar with it as he was with walking. Dior had followed after his mother’s twinkling feet ever since he could remember... Even from a young age he had hoped in vain of withholding her graceful pace. 

_They would like that_, he thought to himself, staring at each of the still, smiling faces with restrained dismay. _They would like that very much_...

Then, as low as rumbling thunder, the wide doors creaked ajar. A long, scratchy sound that sailed through the entire room, snapping everyone from their trance. Something that should have unravelled within seconds felt like an eternity; and Dior feared that he was caught in the stillness of time, forced to live in the nightmare of having to watch them only creak wider and wider.

He half expected a hundred arrows to fly through, impaling the helpless noble folk below. He could picture it before him: a silver arrow gracefully flying through the air, soaring over the throne room as a white-feathered bird, colliding first with the jewel and shattering it into a thousand shards before cutting through his own neck. Dior would bleed and die upon his grandfather’s throne, with not even the chance of a scream escaping his throat. 

But no arrows came, and no chaos. Only silence. 

Inside, as the whispers of a wind, stepped the sons of Fëanor. They came alone, with not the company of their own men or Doriathrin guards, and no weapons. When they walked, each step rung as thunder; hard boots against cold, stone tiles . Only when they stood before the throne did they come to a halt, the lords and ladies below scrambling away with soft shrieks and gasps.  


In silence, they waited. All seven of them stood tall, all had piercing silver eyes. _Too bright_, Dior noted. _Too sharp— almost white_. They stared at him as if they were ogling their prey, anger reflected in some of their eyes.

Then, the eldest spoke: “Your highness.” He said, his voice echoing like thunder, and no more. The silence that followed was tense. 

It took Dior a moment to realise that it was _his_ job to address them in return. He shifted uncomfortably upon his seat and hoped to the Valar that they had not noticed him squirm. 

Blinking twice, he softly cleared his throat, praying that his voice would not squeak when he would speak: “Maitimo Maedhros,” he greeted formally, _respectfully_. “I welcome you and your brother into my halls. I hope there were no troubles on your trip here.”

Maedhros watched him with an unreadable expression, standing perfectly still. “It was pleasant enough. Your halls are a beautiful sight.” His voice sounded dull and dead, as if he did not mean a word that he said, and he had carefully memorised a script. 

Dior blinked, eyes wide, unsure of what to do next. His mind wandered to Nimloth, and for a second wished she was by his side. She would know what to do, what to say; she would charm them all, and within less than an hour they would be on their way. But she _wasn’t_ by his side, and he felt helpless. The sons of Fëanor looked as if they wanted to eat him raw...

In all honesty and slight lack of pride, Dior could admit they were all quite handsome, with strong features and great resemblances. All of them stood straight, with perfect postures and strong legs; and although their hands were calloused there was not a scar on their faces, and all regarded him with cold, hateful eyes. _All_ sons were like thus, all save for one. 

Maedhros stood out as blood upon snow. His posture was bent, not quite straight, and his face was decorated with thin, white lines. He was halted, one leg slightly shorter than the other, as if it had been broken, twisted, and never fully mended again. His face was sharp, eyes piercing bright, but there was no hatred in them; no coldness. There was—

Nothing.

Dior saw nothing.

Inhaling sharply and much to his own shock, he found himself saying: “I wish to speak with the sons of Fëanor.” 

There was silence, and the court did not move. Dior looked up, flashing his eyes sharply: “_Alone_.” He did not raise his voice, had not needed to, because within second the nobles and guards below unravelled.

In hushed gasps and whispers they moved hastily, fleeing from the throne room and leaving nothing behind but the hushed whispers of their brushing robes. Galadriel was the last to exit, grey eyes sharper than daggers. When the door clanked shut, silence reigned once again, and only then did Dior realise his painful mistake. 

Now, as he had commanded, he sat _alone_ with all seven sons of Fëanor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update, I’ve been busy & procrastinating these past weeks ( which is an explanation for the lack of updates ).  
I sincerely hope their meeting didn’t come off as rushed. Originally, I intended for it to be split into two chapters – but whilst writing this one I felt it would be best to merge it into one. Things will become more tense in the next one x  
Thank you for the kudos and comments<3 they’re loved


	7. Kill Them

The silence was deadly.

It was like the bite of winter, shrilling and cold to the touch. It left a deep ache in his bones, making it almost impossible to try and hold the sharp glares aimed towards him. Dior had hoped for his guests to be a tad bit more polite to the king who had invited them into his own halls, but only now did he seem to realise how foolish such calculation had been. He should have expected little to _no_ respect from the sons of Fëanor. 

All of the seven brothers stood as still as stone and stared at him with sharp, grey eyes. _Fëanor’s eyes_, Dior thought to himself, _their father’s eyes_. He wondered how Fingolfin had managed to survive his years spent in Aman with his half-bother; how he had managed to endure the harsh glares cast at him through such fiery irises. How had he not _crumbled_ beneath the strength of such a heated gaze? Because now, Dior wanted nothing more than to leave. 

None of them said a word, even as Dior patiently waited, and the king found it difficult to master the courage and be the first to speak. 

Shifting upon his seat, he turned away, unable to bear their eyes anymore. He should have felt shameful, falling weak under their glowers, but he only felt relieved not having to hold their their stares any second longer. He had hoped that one of them would have come with a brazen speech; demanded the return of their father’s jewel so that Dior would be forced to hand it over in defeat, but there was not even a shift. They were simply waiting. 

Drawing in a deep breath, someone at last spoke, and Dior was surprised to find that it was he himself: “I... want to apologise for the troubles of leading you here,” he said, surprised that his voice rung loud and clear and that it was not a weak whisper in the air. “I know... that my people are not fond of you, that my servants have not been kind to you, and it would have been better to deliver the Silmaril to you rather than drag you here. But—“

”Then why didn’t you?” Dior was silenced. It was Caranthir that had asked the question. There was a pause before the dark one continued, his gaze more hateful if such thing was even possible: “Why didn’t you just send the Silmaril?”

”What?” He asked, surprised at how breathy he sounded. Well, he could hardly breathe to begin with—

“If it would have been less troubling to deliver the Silmaril to us rather than have us march here as obedient hounds, why didn’t you?” Caranthir explained, his fists clenching by his sides. “Why didn’t you just do that?”

Dior swallowed, his breath hitching as the Silmaril choked him tighter by the throat. They were growing restless, Dior could sense so. He could see it in their postures, how they weren’t relaxed but stiff, as if they were waiting for something. He could _feel_ a shift in the air. It made him tense. The jewel wasn’t helping either, singing to him a cursed and dark song. _Kill them all, kill them all_...

“I—“ he began, but was immediately interrupted before he could begin to explain. 

”And why do you flaunt our father’s jewel upon your neck so?” Curufin pressed on, sneering in anger. “Is it your intention to rile is up?”

”What?” Dior asked, startled by the assumption. “No! I-“ 

“We had hoped you were wiser than your grandfather,” Celegorm leered idly, eyeing Dior with an unreadable expression. “But although you look every bit Elven – so pretty with your mother’s face – it would seem you have the _unfortunate_ wits of a man.” 

For the first time Dior felt greatly insulted, and almost arose in his heat if not for the jewel that pressed him further down into his seat. What had once been a still and calm throne room was unwinding into a whirlwind of chaos. Maedhros said no word. The eldest was the only one left who appeared composed, watching the scene unfold with empty eyes. 

“Tell me, what was the _true_ reason of dragging us to your kingdom?” Caranthir hissed, his eyes darting all around as if he was searching for hidden guards or looming soldiers. Dior’s eyes widened in realisation. They didn’t trust him.

They believed Dior meant to _kill_ them. 

_Yes, kill them_! The jewel cheered happily, glad to hear that the thought had at last drifted through his mind. Dior’s fingers twitched as he had to refrain himself from covering his ears, not wanting the sons of Fëanor would accuse him of madness. _Kill them and paint your halls red with their blood_! 

“Your majesty,” Maglor said, and although his voice was soft, his gaze was deadly. “You have brought us to your halls, you have presented us our father’s jewel so that we know you did not lie about it being in your possession. Hand it over and be done with it, be done with _us_, and there will be no more troubles on our hands anymore. We will forget that this... insolence ever took place and find it in our hearts to forgive you – as you _will_ forgive us.”

Dior gripped the armrests as he tried to shut out the jewel’s taunts, unable to focus clearly on what Maglor had to say. None of the brothers seemed to notice this, none but Maedhros: whose eyes drifted to the white fingers that shook. “I _will_ return your jewel,” Dior at last managed to breathe out. “But—“

”_But_!?” Celegorm hollered, and the king flinched at the loud voice that rung through the wide hall. “We came here with the firm belief that there were _no_ buts...” his hand waved over his belt, and his eyes widened as for the first time he seemed to realise that he had no weapon and no hilt to grab. It didn’t matter. Dior had noticed the movement and knew that the lord’s intention had been to draw out his sword. It was as if a veil had been pulled, and the rest followed. 

Daringly, six brothers took a step towards the throne. 

They had no weapons but that hardly seemed to matter. They could kill him with or without a blade; it would be nothing but a petty game for them to play. Dior forgot all of his courtesies. Years spent in training to appear perfect and regal and _composed_ drained from his mind as panic seized ahold of him. He began to beg: “No, please- _please_, listen to me.” His voice was meek, his tone quiet, but they had heard him nonetheless. “I mean to speak with you, not to engage in combat or arguments–“

”There is no need to speak!” Curufin said, stretching forth his hand. ”All there needs to be done is something simple and swift. Hand. Us. The jewel.” 

Then, as if on cue, the Silmaril _screamed, _and Dior’s eyes widened in horror. It was a foul sound, the music of shattering glass and the scratching of nails against a dish. He saw Curufin’s lips moving but he heard no word that tumbled from the elf’s lips, only the cries of the Silmaril. 

At last, feeling all patience slip from his soul, Dior rose up swiftly. At his full height upon the throne he appeared unearthly, as if he was ancient and not a half-man who was no older thirty-three. With a shaking and unsteady hand he reached towards his own throat as if he meant to scratch it. Shivering fingers clasped firmly around the shimmering stone that was freezing to the touch, as if the heart of winter was trapped from within.

Maglor’s eyes widened at the unfolding sight, but the twins were the only ones who took a step back in mild terror, one of them calling out in alarm. Dior could _feel_ them. He could hear their steady beating of their hearts pounding against their chests; the flowing of their blood running through their veins; the hesitation in their eyes even as they spoke and the the burning fire that blazed in their souls. 

_One_ move, is all that needed to be done. _One_ move with enough conjured magic and he could make them all drop down dead. The world would at last be rid of them; the earth would no longer need bear their tainted feet. All he needed to do was call for his grandmother’s magic. He _could_ kill them with _one_ move, and staring into Maedhros’ calm eyes, Maedhros knew it too. The jewel was wailing:

_Kill them! Kill them! Kill them_–

“Give us the jewel!” Someone called, Dior knew not who. 

In a loud and terrifying voice, one that belonged neither to any elf or man, Dior screamed:

”SHUT _UP_!” 

Within the split of a second chaos seized dominance as all the windows within the throne room shattered, the sharp shards flying through the air just as the jewel was ripped from his throat. Pearls and sweet, shimmering stones rained as stars all around him, and the sound of their soft clinks tumbling down the throne steps hummed alike the echoey drops of a waterfall. But when the hard din of the Silmaril colliding against the hard floor rung through the room, everything fell into frail silence. 

Wide-eyed, Dior stood still in shock. He no longer felt the weight of the Silmaril upon his throat, nor could he hear the thousand voices drowning him in a hollow tune. For a moment, everything was peaceful. Then, there was a deep ache in his bones. 

Twilight eyes fluttered shut and he suddenly felt _exhausted. _It was as if the weight of the world had been placed upon his shoulders, and just as an airy breath left his throat his legs gave up beneath him. Alike a puppet he crumbled down to the floor; tumbling down the steps as the haunting jewel had done just seconds ago. 

He did not feel or hear a thing. Only silence. 

• • •

“— This is a serious matter that must be brought to court!” The voice was low, _quiet_, more of a hiss than a whisper. Bathed in darkness the voice was the only sign of consciousness. Dior was awake. Beneath him he felt the press of a firm mattress, and all around him the soft sheets against skin. “We are speaking of attempted murder. They _attacked_ the king–“

There was a sigh followed by an objection: “We don’t know that.” Celeborn? Dior recognised the voice. It was soft, but it sounded weary above all. _Everything_ sounded blurred, as if his head had been dipped into water, and he heard only the reflection of what was to be said. 

The sound of something hard making in impact with a solid surface almost made Dior flinch, but then he realised that he could not move. It was as if his body was objecting his commands, and he was stuck within the confines of his mind. He found not even the strength to open his eyes. It took him a moment to realise that someone had slammed their fist upon a hard surface, and the previous voice spoke again: 

“How would you explain it then? There are bruises all around his body and neck, the Nauglamír was torn so that it is unrecognisable and the Silmaril stood before Maedhros’ feet as the _king’s_ body lay seemingly lifeless before the other brothers’! There is no other explanation. This was a planned attack!”

”And how would you describe it to the court? To the Ñoldor?” Celeborn asked again, although he sounded more convinced than he had before. 

“Why, that they grew impatient, of course! They violated the king, ripped the necklace from his throat before choking him! How else would you explain the bruises? His broken arm?“

His arm was broken? It didn’t _feel_ broken — although, he did not feel _anything_ at all, really. Just emptiness. 

“Everyone knows it’s unwise to trust those bloody _Gelydh_, and he decided to invite them into these halls! I tell you, that boy is too much alike his uncle rather than mother. He’s too delicate... and too soft to hold the throne.”

”Do _not_ speak of the prince Daeron that way,” another voice butted in. It was Galadhon’s. He sounded sad at the mention of the lost son of Thingol, but also angry. “And do not speak of the king that way, either. You better mind your tongue.”

”Mind my?- _I_ at the very least did not leave him alone with the sons of Fëanor! I want to know what you all were _thinking_, what on Earth was going through your heads?” 

“We obeyed our king’s orders,” Galadhon said darkly. “As you would have as well... or so I would think.”

”Why, you—“

”Please, enough.” A fourth voice begged weakly. _Nimloth_. Dior’s fingers twitched, hoping to find her. “Please don’t argue. Not now... not _here_...” he felt the mattress shift beside him, and startled at the touch of someone gingerly stroking his hair but relaxed at the realisation that it was her. “This matter will only be brought up when my husband awakes.”

Dior heard a scoff, and the hard sound of someone’s steps ringing through the room. “And might I ask where you were when all of this took place? Should you not have been by your husband’s side, as is the _queen’s_ duty?”

The startling sound of a chair toppling over would have made Dior flinch had he been fully conscious. It was Galathil’s voice that came next, dangerously sharp: “Mind your—“

”Father, please,” Nimloth bid him and silence quickly fell again, “it’s alright... I admit I should have done my duty as a wife and a queen, but I had other matters to attend to. I did my duty as a ranger, protecting the borders from invading enemies. I was told that the sons of Fëanor would arrive at evening – not noon. How was I to know that they had come early? Alas, I received the news too late, and by the time I had returned everything had already unfolded into the most unpleasant mess. Still... it would be ill to put all the blame on the sons of Fëanor.”

”Then who should take the blame? Surely, I’m not the only one who can say that this is a closed matter. There is no one that could have attacked the king _but_ them.”

”It could’ve been an accident,” Celeborn tried, but even he sounded unconvinced. “There might be a missing puzzle piece we have not yet found. We can’t charge them guilty without a trial—“

”A _trial_? This is a waste of time. They attacked the king and if I‘m the only one of the royal court who demands justice then so be it. I say they are guilty. Why? How did they react when they were dragged away by our guards? _None_ of them fought back. Their lord Maedhros did not resist and neither did his brothers, tell me, wouldn’t one resist if one is innocent? Why did they not?” The person allowed silence to fall before finishing: “Because they are every bit guilty—“ 

“Enough!” Nimloth begged, the grip she had on Dior’s hair tightening though only for a moment. Gently, she began to stroke it again as soon as silence fell. “_Please! _Not here!”

For a moment there was nothing but silence. Dior felt grateful, for it gave him a moment to think, and absorb everything that had been said. He tried to puzzle together what he could not remember and try to form an image that would soon turn to a memory. 

Footsteps rung loudly and only stopped when close Dior’s bed. He felt a pair of warm hands take his left hand – the side that was not broken – and clutched onto it gently, placing a soft kiss upon the back of it. The kiss was mellow, lips barely grazing skin, but it was cold; just like the touch of a certain jewel had been–

Then, something clicked, and with a loud gasp using every bit of his power Dior finally took a grip onto consciousness and rose up, eyes snapping open in wide alert. Celeborn yelped, letting go of his hand as if he had been burnt just as Nimloth shrieked by his side, nearly toppling over the bed in surprise. His awakening had startled everyone, and they stared at him in pure surprise, as if they had seen someone rise from the dead.

Only then did Dior feel the pain.

Flares of spasm ignited through his entire body, sending flashes of blinding, white light across his vision. He almost toppled over in pain, but instead he raised a quivering, left hand to his throat, fingers lightly brushing over the bruises that screamed beneath the delicate touch. His right arm was writhing in pain and his head was pounding. Looking around, he stared at all the faces as if he was facing a room of strangers, drawing in haggard and biting breaths, finding it strangely difficult to breathe. 

”My king—“ Galadhon said, quick to come to his side, bending down to his knees so that he had to look up at the bloodshot eyes that darted all around nervously. “My king, please lay down, you are not well...”

”What happened?” Dior asked, but he was surprised to find that his voice was a dry _nothing_. Even when he cleared his throat, cringing at the pain that teased him, it was still hoarse: “What happened?” He repeated, at last sounding audible.

Galadhon and Celeborn shared a look before carefully Celeborn began to explain: “There was an incident, my king. Nothing that you need to worry of now—“

”What—“

”I bid you to rest,” Galadhon commanded gently, slowly pushing against Dior’s shoulder, urging him to lay down. “You are not fit to think properly, you need to ease your mind...”

”The sons of Fëanor attacked you,” all heads turned to where Oropher stood, glaring at the wall. Months had passed since the last time Dior had seen his kinsman, so he was surprised to find him standing there at all. His hair was unbound, shorter than Dior remembered it to be, and a pale white colour. It took Dior a moment to realise that the unfamiliar voice that had spoken a moment ago had belonged to _him_.

Oropher did not face Dior, but Dior felt the glare aimed at the wall either way, as if it was directed at him. “They tried to take the Silmaril by force.”   
  
“A Elbereth, would you _please_ shut up—“ Celeborn hissed, striding towards his uncle in three great paces with his fists clenched to his sides.   
  
“I bid you to sit this one down, nephew...” 

Dior didn’t hear the rest, too deep in his own thoughts, trying his utterly best to puzzle what had happened only... how long had it been? Surely, no more than a few hours? Thinking hard, Dior remembered a thousand shrieking voices, cold grey eyes and the sound of the Silmaril clinking against the cold, marble tiles. He remembered feeling relief, then weariness, before darkness had engulfed him only seconds before the cold floor. That was all. 

His eyes widened. _That_ was _all_...  
  
There had been no attack. Perhaps the thought of it, but nothing had happened. Panicked, ignoring Galadhon’s protest who still tried to coax him to lie down, Dior asked: “Where are the sons of Fëanor?”   
  
Silence fell. He tried again, his voice harsher this time: “_Where_ are the sons of Fëanor?”

“Dior—“ Nimloth began softly but was cut off:

”Where are they?” 

Galathil sighed a few feet away, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a great headache. His father-in-law looked _tired_, as if he had not slept properly in days, and drawing in a deep breath he finally said: “They were taken as prisoners and thrown into the dungeons.” When he turned to meet Dior’s gaze there was sadness in his eyes. “They cannot hurt you now.”   
  
But Dior did not feel relieved. He felt _awful_. Seven people now sat in the dungeons, seven _innocent_ people. He didn’t want to imagine it – picturing them laying there in the freezing cold with not even proper food or blankets. Sitting there as painted criminals. Tossing his legs over the bed, ignoring the whine that ignited from Galadhon’s throat, he made the move to stand but Nimloth held him back.   
  
“Release them!” Dior pleaded, much to everyone’s surprise. “Release them now!”

Oropher looked astonished: “My king—“

”They did not attack me!” Dior said, feeling like he was suffocating. No – _no_, that wasn’t what was suppose to happen! He had meant to form an alliance, not throw his potential allies into jail! ”There was no attack!”

Celeborn turned to Oropher with a harsh face and looked as if he wanted to say ‘I told you so’ but was careful enough to mind his tongue. 

“What?” Galadhon asked, startled. “They-“

”-didn’t attack me,” Dior finished, finally arising after gently coaxing Nimloth’s fingers off his shoulders. He turned to her with an apologetic smile, and only dared continue when she nodded. “Please, take me to them. I need to apologise.”

”_You_ need to apologise?” Oropher asked, baffled. 

“My king!” Galadhon then said with a stern and commanding voice, standing up so that he towered over Dior. Finally, he appeared as the Sindar prince he had once so proudly been. Ever since his father’s departure, Galadhon’s proud image had crumbled away, and such image almost faded completely at the loss of Thingol’s children. Dior was grateful to see that the fire burned there still, but was not glad that such heat was directed at _him_. “Lie. Down. You _need_ to rest.”

As an obedient, stricken puppy, Dior leaned back, almost sinking into the soft mattress that soothed his spine. But he could not just do _nothing_. 

“Please, release them.” He begged, taking Galadhon’s hand into both of his own. He knew that if there was anyone who had the authority to release the sons of Fëanor it was Galadhon. “Don’t make them stay a minute longer in those freezing cells for a crime they did not commit! Please, Galadhon, release them for me.” Dior wanted to feel ashamed, being a king and needing to ask rather than command his cousin to release them with the authority that he had. But Dior wanted to speak to his kinsman as family, not a king.

There was a hesitation, then a smile before Galadhon knelt. He planted a kiss upon both of Dior’s knuckles, waiting for a moment to pass before speaking: “I believe that such task should not be placed upon me, but it is something that you must carry. If you wish to release them then it is your duty to do so.” He waited, staring into Dior’s eyes with distant sadness before continuing: “...it was the jewel, was it not?”

Dior nodded, guilt tugging at his heart. Tears brimmed in his eyes but he forced them back. He would not cry, not in front of so many people. 

Leaning forward Galadhon pressed his forehead against the back of Dior’s hand, inhaling sharply the scent of his king. When he met Dior’s gaze again there was shame in his starry eyes. “I should have realised,” he whispered. “I should have realised it before you even thought of clasping it around your throat. I saw how it hollowed out your grandfather, I know that it drove the king Fëanor mad, and yet I had not the eyes to see how it had caged you so...”

Then, he arose, straightening his posture so that he appeared regal again. 

“I will not release the sons of Fëanor, but I will confirm their pardons, and inform them that your majesty pleads them innocent. Worry not, my king. I will make sure to explain everything so that you will not need to.”

Dior nodded, that was all he needed to hear. At last he allowed himself to relax, and suddenly felt _very_ tired. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift into soundless sleep, his muscles and bones ached for release. Taking Nimloth’s hand into his own, his eyes fluttered shut when she clasped it tightly. But before he dared wander off he managed one last thing: “Where is the jewel now?”

But Dior did not have the strength to hear the answer before darkness consumed him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... plot twist?  
There’s a lot of things in this chapter I would like to fix, but I don’t think I can improve it much. Hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments<3


	8. An Heir to an Heir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dior speaks with Maedhros.

A week passed in a blur.   
  
Sometimes, Dior would do nothing but stare up at the empty ceiling with a strange numbness in his chest. The breathy songs of eleven choirs hummed outside in the distance outside, but they brought not the trancing comfort the Silmaril had. Even though the jewel had been ill in its nature, and brought nothing but fell issues and pain, Dior was deeply troubled to find that he missed the feeling of it clasped around his throat. 

Ripping it off had perhaps been the only right decision Dior had made in his entire reign as king. Sometimes, his fingers would subconsciously stray towards his own throat, brushing over the ugly, dark bruises that took their time to heal unlike the other ones, that had almost dissolved. Even his arm had nearly mended completely, and he was grateful that although he was in his blood more dominantly a man, he had been bestowed the Elven ability of healing. 

Only on the seventh day did he finally have the full strength to stand up, and he did so cautiously, with the sturdy help of Nimloth and the sweet encouragements of his own two sons. The twins had visited him often, three times a day to be more precise, with new stories to tell each time. They would take his hand and inform him of their archery lessons, their singing classes, what they had for dinner and all sorts mayhem they got themselves into. Each conversation would always bring comfort to Dior, but he found himself saddened every time they finished. 

Guilt. It was guilt that tugged at his heart. He had been too focused on being a good king that he had forgotten to be a father. He had failed in the one thing he had vowed to succeed. The one thing he had ever cared to accomplish. 

He had not seen Elwing in days. She stayed in the nursery, and the servants refused to take her away, even if it meant for the King to see. He had never understood their orders of keeping her tucked away._ ‘She is too small_, _your highness_...’ was the most common excuse, but he doubted that it was the whole reason. Had Dior grown up in Doriath, they would have shielded him the same way as they did her. As if she was a fey, fickle thing, so delicate and breakable to the world. 

They had sheltered his mother Lúthien in their fright, and her death was the price they had to pay for it. 

On the eighth day, Dior at last found both the strength and pride to leave his bedroom, for he no longer staggered when he walked. Galadhon deeply protested against his decision, but none of the healers or servants dared object. He had stayed away for far too long, and he had matters to attend to. 

Although duty called for him to meet the sons of Fëanor, Dior found himself dreamily led to Elwing’s nursery. When he entered the room slightly disheveled, having walked faster than deemed necessary, he was surprised to find that she was not in her crib but on the floor, _crawling_. 

One could have heard a needle drop as all heads turned towards him, wide eyed and alert. The servants scurried away as frightened sheep at the sight of their king, tall and yet so broken, but he cared not for their reactions. With his eyes on the small child, he swiftly approached Elwing, and although it brought a deep ache to his lower back, bent down and scooped her up with his one good arm. “_Aew-nín_...” he murmured against her hair, planting a kiss upon a fat cheek. “How much you’ve grown...”

Only a fortnight had passed since the last time Dior recalled having seen her, and yet she had changed. _Swift are the lives of men_, he thought to himself. He should have known – the boys grew up much faster than the other Elven children did, already big enough to learn archery while their peers were still struggling on climbing. Dior wondered how long it had taken for himself to reach adulthood? Sometimes, he felt as if he was still not yet there.

Staring into her bright grey eyes, he found himself smiling, and his heart softened when she smiled at him return. _At least she recognises me_...

He stayed with her for what felt like hours, sitting with her upon the floor, clapping and cheering whenever she would crawl towards him or babble nonexistent words. He laughed when she took ahold of his hair, chewing on it slightly more harshly than she had before, grateful that at least one thing had yet changed.

Before he found both the strength and courage to leave, he sang her to sleep, rocking her in his arms as he swayed danced lightly. The room was empty save for the two of them, for he never liked dancing in front of others. He did not come to a halt until her starry eyes fluttered shut. A minute passed before he dared move again, and gently he lowered her into the crib, planting a light kiss upon the dark, shining hair.

He left as quickly as he had come, knowing that if he stayed any longer he would never dare leave.

The next thing to do was something not nearly as pleasing as Elwing, and in his heart he dreaded for it to come. Alas, it was something that _had_ to be done. 

Each step down the dungeon stairs rung like thunder, and his legs both ached hurt. Somehow he found the pride to keep his back straight and unbent, knowing that if he had to face _them_ he would do so as not a weakling but his grandfather’s heir. They had already seen the meek side of him – he would not have them see it again. 

When he at last made it down the final steps the temperature had dropped so low that it felt freezing. Down in the cells he was surrounded by the chill of winter and crawling darkness. Had it not been for the torches propped upon the walls, he would have been welcomed by nothing but a black abyss. Guards immediately arose from their stools at the sight of him, tossing away their board games and empty goblets in fleeting panic as they struggled to straighten their helms. Had it been a different situation he would have found the humour to laugh.

Dior bowed his head, approaching them with delicate and graceful steps, hoping that they could not see the pain and toll each one took on him. 

“I wish to see them,” he said, and knew that he did not need to clarify of whom he spoke. One of the guards – an elleth with a familiar face though her name Dior could not recognise – was quick to react. 

“Yes, your majesty.” Swiftly, she took ahold of a torch upon the wall, and turning on her heels began to march into the dark. Restlessly he followed. 

Shadows danced on the walls. Although he knew well that no dark creatures dwelt in the Sindar’s deep halls, his eyes still darted nervously to each corner and shadow they passed, in search of wicked serpents or spiders that would try and hide from his sight. Wrapping his arms around himself, he noted that he should have worn a cloak, for not even expensive robes were any help against the deep chill that reached his bones. The din of their light footsteps echoed loudly the further they would go, and curiously he would turn to peek into seemingly empty cells, wondering whether his grandfather had locked anyone up during his reign. Whether some of them dwelt there still. 

The thought of him sent his stomach turning. 

“Which one?” The guard asked. Dior was startled, pulled away from the thought of his grandfather to the present time. 

“Pardon?”

She cast him a small smile. “Which one would you like to see first?”

_Oh_. Feeling nervous, Dior pinched his wrist. For some odd reason, he hesitated to speak, although he had no reason to. He had thought the answer had been quite obvious. “Maedhros,” he said, blinking at her face. “The lord Maitimo Maedhros.”

Nodding, she inclined her head, and took a swift turn down a narrow corridor. The dungeons felt like a maze, spinning and endless. It made him feel uneasy, and guilty for having the sons of Fëanor locked up. Even though only seven days had passed, those seven days must have felt like an eternity down in the cold and dark... 

He almost lost his breath completely when she came to a halt before a cell, stopping in his tracks so that he would not walk into her.

The cell looked old and worn, the bars rustic, and it smelled ancient, but not in a good way. Staring into it, he saw nothing but darkness. No movement or silhouette, not even a sound. Judging the look on his face, she was quick to answer his question: “He’s in there. Don’t worry, we’ve checked numerous of times. He’s just good at keeping still...”

Swallowing tightly, finding it difficult to command his legs to move, Dior crept towards the cell. His heart was pounding harshly against his ribcage, thrashing and begging for him to stop. He could not, and stopped only a foot before it, noting that it was locked. His voice was a breath in his throat. “I need to go inside.” He found himself saying, although that was the last thing he desired to do. But there was no other way. He had to do it the _right_ way. Speaking with Maedhros face to face, not as a superior but as equals. 

She frowned deeply, looking as if she unwilling to obey his orders. “My king, would that be wise?”

”_Please_,” he said, almost wearily. “I do not believe it to be the lord Maitimo Maedhros’ intentions to harm me. Now, if you would be kind enough to unlock...” his voice trailed off, but he did not need to finish.

Slowly, a little hesitant, she approached the cell with heavy steps, the sound of hundreds of keys jangling together echoing loudly through the dark. The door jostled open with a loud creak and a whine, the sound of it scraping uglily against the stone tiles ringing in the dark. Drawing in a deep breath, Dior made the move to step inside, but she grabbed his forearm gently before he could. Immediately, her face flushed in shame when he turned to her, as she realised what she had done. Quickly, she let go, eyes cast down to her own feet. 

“My apologies, my king – I did not mean to...” she cleared her throat. “Would you like me to assist and guard you inside?” Her hand moved towards the hilt of her sword, but he was quick to shake his head. 

“There will be no need of that,” he said, hesitating to speak his next sentence, but knowing that it had to be said. “I do not intend to leave this cell alone.” Her eyes widened, but before she could dare say another word he turned away, and walked into deep shadows. 

For a faint second Dior saw nothing but the black abyss as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. The cell smelled of iron and grime, although there was also the faint scent of rosemary drifting in the air. His steps were almost soundless against the cold stone tiles, and for a second he stood clueless in the dark, wondering whether he was alone.

Then, he at last saw the dark silhouette of a sitting figure, and was startled to find that the person was staring directly at him with cool, grey eyes. For a moment, Dior was wordless, fear taking ahold of him in its mightiness, and he found the urge to turn and run away.

Maedhros’ glare was stern, but it lacked hostility, and for that Dior was grateful. His hair was loose, cloaked around him as a cape, and the bowl of food and water beside him was untouched. He said no word, but stared at Dior in sharp silence, waiting patiently for the king to speak. 

Dior struggled for words: “I—“ he hesitated, feeling nervousness and paranoia eat at his heart raw. “I want to apologise for causing this trouble... I also want to apologise on the behalf of the royal court, for having you arrested. They knew not what happened... they assumed that you attacked me– not that you did, but...”

His voice wavered. Maedhros made no movement nor sound, he simply stared at Dior with his silver eyes. Eyes that, no matter how cold they seemed, were strangely hypnotising. At last, Dior managed to finish, not quite in control any more: “I have told them the truth, the _whole_ truth. I... asked them to release you more than a week ago, but they refused and said that if I would want you released I should do so myself...” he paused, shifting uncomfortably beneath the stern gaze and looking around the dark, empty cell. “So...” he cleared his throat. “Here I am.”

The silence that dawned was strained and chilling, and for what felt like minutes neither of them said a thing. Maedhros sat in the dark, staring up at the young king with not a reaction, but when he spoke his voice was shrivelling and strong: “Where are my brothers?” 

Dior’s eyes widened. “Oh– I...” he flushed. “I came to speak with you first... I have yet to talk to them — but they will be released just as you–“

Dior was silenced by an odd sound, one the thought he would never hear. It was cruel, teasing, and slightly amused. Like the ringing of nails scraping against glass. It took him a moment to realise that Maedhros was _laughing_. The eldest of seven brothers was laughing as if he had been told a jest, and the grin upon his face revealed sharp canines. It wouldn’t surprise Dior if he had filed them himself, but Dior had not the time to wonder, for a chill ran down his spine at the sound of the laughter, and he felt deeply afraid. 

Then, the laughter died within the split of a second, and Maedhros watched him sharply with a cool gaze: “You wish to _talk_ to them?” He asked, lowly. “They will rip you apart,” he said gravely, as if it was something so simple and obvious. “They think you broke your word, you _did_ promise that no harm would come to us.”

Dior struggled to find his voice: “I did –“ he stammered, finding it difficult to form words. “I _did, _and had I not been unconscious I would have stopped them. _Believe_ me when I say it was not my intention to lock you up, I did order them to not harm you— but they assumed first that you had broken the treaty. It was all just a misunderstanding! Had it not been for the—“

”What?” Maedhros asked, his voice strangely soft. “The _Silmaril_?” 

Dior’s mouth snapped shut. For a moment, he simply stood and stared at the elf before him, wondering how much Maedhros _knew_. When Maedhros spoke a second time his voice was harsh again, as cold as the bite of winter: “The Silmaril that you wore on your neck?”

”I wasn’t going to,” Dior said, his voice a whisper in the air. He felt shocked — as if he stood not upon the ground but was drifting in water. Without realising it, his fingers went to his throat, and they lightly brushed over the healing bruises. “I wasn’t going to — they told me to...” 

Then, something changed entirely with Maedhros, as if for the first time he saw something else other than a naive king before him. His gaze softened so that his face was nearly unrecognisable. Then, within the split of a second it hardened again, and Dior knew that he had glimpsed a soft side. 

“And what of my father’s jewel?” He asked, at last rising up. He stood taller than Dior did, his shoulders twice the width of Dior’s own. “What will become of it?” 

Dior swallowed. “It’s yours,” he breathed, not taking a step back even as Maedhros approached him.   
  
“Is that another lie?” Maedhros asked awfully sweetly, coming to stand before Dior so that the king was forced to crane his head back in order to hold eye contact. “Promise me, will you? On your life if need be...” He raised his left hand, his calloused fingers hovering lightly over the bruises upon Dior’s neck, as if they were taunting him. He was _threatening_ him. Behind him, Dior could hear the steel of a sword singing as the guard unsheathed it from her belt.

Strangely enough, Dior did not feel afraid. He feared a lot of things, but he could not bring himself to fear... whatever _this_ was. For some odd reason, he knew that no harm would come to him. Not by the hands of the elf that towered so greatly before him. “You won’t hurt me.” He said, blinking slowly, noting how the pupils in Maedhros’ eyes dilated. “But you have my word...” Hesitating, he hardly managed to finish: “The jewel is yours.”  
  
Maedhros said nothing, but he pulled back his hand hastily, as if he had burnt himself on the bruises. His eyes were hard again: “So you will release me?”   
  
Dior turned away, walking back towards the dim firelight that the guard clutched tightly onto. He pinched his wrist, hoping that Maedhros would not notice the flush on his cheeks: “Follow me, Maitimo Maedhros.”   
  


And he did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure if I did the translations correctly, but:  
Aew-nín: my little bird.  
Aew: being little bird, and nín: my
> 
> Finally, the sexual tension arises ;p  
It’s been a while, hope you all enjoyed this<3  



	9. Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One night, two minds.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and rich perfumes. 

It was a wide area, spacious and clean; the walls decorated with fine runes that seemed to illuminate in the dark. _Daeron's Cirth_, Maedhros noted, and wondered what it said, having never bothered to learn it, although he supposed now it might have been wise to. He pondered whether they held any magical properties at all or if they were merely there for decoration.

Stepping inside, he admired the room in content silence, relieved of its design. Not small enough for him to feel trapped, but not nearly large enough to feel empty and lonely. Already his body ached at the thought of a soft mattress pressed against his back, and he felt exhausted. 

Perhaps the runes did hold magic. A blessing, maybe, to help lull one to sleep...

“There-“ someone began softly, but hesitated when Maedhros turned to face the person. It was Dior, eyes cast down to his own feet. Within the room, the Sinda appeared completely at home; his robes and manner matching the breathless eeriness the kingdom offered. Maedhros was blood upon snow. “There are fresh clothes laid upon the bed if you wish to change - and the servants will bring you food if you desire it...” 

There was silence, one filled with cold tension, before Maedhros managed to force out an answer: 

“Thank you.”

He had meant for it to sound sincere, grateful even, but instead it came off as cold and dull. Maedhros recalled a time when his voice used to be calming and warm, the brush of kindling brooks or a gentle breeze. No more was it a mellow sound but rather a hoarse tune. _Corrupted_, he thought to himself grimly, _just alike the body of its holder_. 

He saw Dior tense beneath the weigh of the silence. Less than an hour ago they had finished freeing his brothers. Caranthir had said no word but his glare had declared a thousand. Curufin had scowled with composed anger that threatened to _pop_ any given second. The twins had nearly refused to leave their cells, huddled together as they used to as elflings, and Maglor had brushed himself off with elegance, acting as though nothing had happened at all. None had dared strike the king, all too wise, all save for one.

He shrugged the thought of Celegorm away, too weary to delve on it. The king had pardoned them. He had cleared their trials and judged hem innocent. All was taken care of, all except for one thing.

”And the Silmaril?” Maedhros asked, taking one daring step forward. At last, Dior raised his gaze, and his eyes were wide. They were violet – no, _amethyst_ – or were they the pale shade of starlight? For a moment Maedhros froze where he stood, lost in a trance. They were shifting hues of twilight; auroras in the night sky.

Too unearthly and bright to be Elven or Edain. 

“It’s yours,” came a meek whisper, snapping Maedhros out of the daze. “Like I told you, I have no desire of keeping it.”

Maedhros nodded. This time, the silence was worse than before. Dior shifted where he stood, averting his gaze back to his feet. 

“We will not be staying for long.” Maedhros decided to add, in hopes it would ease the king’s mind and loosen the tension.

Those eerie eyes shot up again, and Maedhros felt as if all air left him. The faint flush upon the king’s cheeks cheeks deepened.

“_Oh_ \- of course,” he said, sounding more disappointed than relieved, before clearing his throat. He cast his eyes down, and only then could Maedhros breathe. “I just... wanted to apologise. I had hoped that a warm bed after days of...” He paused, shaking his head before offering Maedhros a pretty and weak smile that made him seem awfully young. He was fidgeting with his hands, so violently that Maedhros gaze strayed towards them. “I’m _sorry_. For all that has happened. I hope you can find the strength to forgive me...”

Maedhros ignored the offer of apology, too distracted to even acknowledge it. He was busied staring at the king’s twitching hands. “_Stop_,” he said instead, so sharply that Dior flinched. It was the commanding voice of a lord, a former _king, _one that he had not used in quite a while. “Stop doing that.”

Dior blinked, startled. “What?” Maedhros did not answer, but kept his eyes set. Looking down, Dior’s own gaze strayed towards his hands, or rather what his hands were _doing_. Pale wrists had been rubbed raw, bruises of both deep purple and fresh red wrapped all the way around them as a serpents. Dior’s mouth fell agape at the ugly sight, as if he too seemed to be noticing them for the first time.

Quickly, he tucked them away from sight, raising his gaze and meeting Maedhros’s eyes with an impressive mask of composure. 

“I apologise. I... I should leave.” He whispered, blinking slowly. “I will ensure that the Silmaril be in your possession by tomorrow evening. I want it far from this kingdom. When you leave with it, I do not expect it to return.”

_We won’t_, Maedhros thought to himself grimly, careful to not speak so freely aloud. Although he was more than sure that the poor king would do nothing to defend his own honour, Maedhros was not an ill man. It mattered not what the rumours said; what the crowd of people dared whisper, he was not cruel. There were worser things in the world. 

"Very well," he said, not sure what else needed to be shared. Although Dior was in every inch his mother's son, both a king and a father, he somehow managed to look so... uncertain. It mattered not what mask he would decide to hide behind throughout the days, whether they be old and wise or calm and composed, Maedhros could see through them all. He recognised the hesitance, the slight reluctance, and the anxiousness that seemed to be slowly eating at the poor king’s spirit. 

Dior was a _child_, and Maedhros wondered why no one else could see that. 

Subconsciously, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words fell from his lips. He had nothing to say, although he _wanted_ to.

Instead, he settled for a short bow of his head. 

For a moment, Dior appeared startled by such formality, though the surprise lasted only a second or two. Hastily, in a slightly distressed manner, Dior bowed in return, bending his knees so that his fine robes brushed the ground. He then turned away, fleeing with a haste and quiet pardon before a blush could stray to his face. 

Maedhros was left in silence. 

In the darkness the room pushed at his shoulders, urging him lay down and rest. With little desire of defiance, he compliantly he crawled towards the bed, burrowing himself beneath the soft, silk sheets in hopes of relieving some of the ache in his bones. However, although his mind urged him to rest, sleep did not find him that night.

He did not understand why a feeling of emptiness decided to keep him awake until dawn, since it had never managed to before. But no matter how much he _tried_, he was unable to shake away the vivid memory of a set of splendid but haunting, twilight eyes.

All he knew was that he could not stay any longer. The kingdom was a strange place; one that still reeked of the magic of a long departed queen. _Tomorrow_, he thought to himself. _Tomorrow we shall leave, and we shall never return..._

• • •

Dior shut the door behind himself in a breathless haze, unable to shake away the awful feeling in his stomach that pressed on and on, trying to convince himself that it was nothing but fear. 

The lord Maedhros had _bowed_. The proud Fëanorian, the elf with the cold eyes and a scarred face, the one who had been bent and twisted beyond recognition had _bowed_ before him, in _privacy_. What was he to make of that? 

Pinching his eyes shut, struggling to take control of his breaths, he tried to force himself to relax. “The lord Maedhros showed you gratitude and respect, that is all,” he whispered into the empty air. “The lord Maedhros showed you gratitude and respect...” 

Then, he felt a strange emotion wash over him, followed by numbness. Slowly, he opened his eyes, allowing the emptiness to eat at his chest. _The lord Maedhros showed you gratitude and respect_...

It should not have surprised him so. Dior was king. Was that not what people did to kings? Then why had Maedhros’ gesture startled him so? For a moment Dior wondered, searching for an answer, but when he found it he was met with nothing but sadness, and perhaps a little self-pity.

He was the first person to have ever done so. 

Slowly, with shaking fingers, he pulled up his sleeves, revealing dark bruises, some fresh and others old. He had also noticed them, something everyone else had failed to regard. Everyone save for Nimloth, who would kiss them every night. 

_Nimloth_. Dior looked around the room, as if for the first time noticing that it was empty. Where was she? She should have finished all her duties by now, settled for the night to sleep... 

Dior shook his head. There was no need to worry, she was fine on her own. Perhaps she had run into other errands, or decided to take another shift by the outer borders. He had his own duties and she had hers. 

Sighing, knowing he was alone, he allowed himself to crumble; collapsing upon the bed and burying his face beneath heaps of pillows, hoping they would swallow him whole so that darkness would consume him. He would not sleep throughout the night, this he knew, but there was no damage in trying. Maybe he would find rest without it...

Nimloth returned late that night, mere hours before the sun would rise, and as silent as shadows. She placed a gentle kiss upon his cheek, brushed his hair from his face and breathed in his scent. When she did all of this, he kept his eyes closed through it all, as was the way of men, in hopes she would not see through him.

Fortunately, she did not seem to notice, and quickly crawled up to bed beside him. It did not take long for her to fall asleep, breaths soft and gentle. 

But all Dior was able to do was lay wide awake in his misery, staring up at the ceiling with a strange numbness coursing through his veins. Much to his misery and shame, he found his mind wandering. Not the silvery tresses that lay sprawled beside him, but rather of hair that resembled whipping fire, and what it would feel like to thread one’s fingers through the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! Took an awful amount of time to write this thing, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter nonetheless, after a semi-long break (tihi).  
Next chapter should much quicker than it took this one to finish, and awfully tense (hehe).
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments<3 I love reading them. u guys are the sweetest


	10. Unlikely of Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dior stumbles upon an unusual sight.

He was dreaming. 

It was a strange vision. He was bathed in darkness, his back pressed against a sinking mattress; surrounded by the intoxicating scent of copper and faint perfumes that blurred his mind. In his reverie, he felt as if though he was being tossed and turned into empty abyss of bliss, one that was full of ecstasy, leaving him breathless and undone. 

With his fingers he could trace the outlines of wide shoulders and a firm back. Amidst the unfamiliar scent there was a hot breath fanning harshly down his neck; leaving fresh bruises burning upon skin. It left him panting for breath. 

Dior was no fool. He was well aware of what was happening; knew that it was a forging of his own subconsciousness; that it was not _real_. Nonetheless, he could not help but enjoy the time that passed, and allowed himself to be unraveled; to be so delicately handled that it made him breathless and numb. 

However, he knew not how or _why_ his mind had decided to conjure up such images. Only that there was a body above his, one that was strong and firm, and a foreign pressure between his hips. Even as he opened his eyes to peer into the darkness, he could not trace the outlines of a face, but only a raspy voice that groaned into his ear, and the tight grip that the said person had on his hair. 

Though no matter how sweet the fantasy was, Dior did not wish delve too long. He knew that the comfort was merely temporary, and that the guilt and shame of such a dream would be an unbearable burden to bear once he would wake up. He could not allow himself to dwell in dreams, lest they would drive him mad. 

Within the split of a second: Dior woke up.

Eyes fluttering open, he welcomed the weariness that greeted him with a sharp exhale, and pushed aside the strong urge to go back to sleep. Already he could feel the weight of reality pressing down upon his shoulders, and longed for the warmth of the unfamiliar lover in his dream. The room was cold, and the space beside his empty. Nimloth was not there.

Rising up, Dior gazed around in confusion. He felt that morning had already passed, and it was already noon. No one had woken him up. 

During the youth of their marriage, Nimloth had always found the need to wake Dior up with light kisses. She would plant them upon whatever naked skin she could reach, from his face down to his collarbones, until his eyes would flutter open to the sight of her smile. Back then, laughter had been a familiar friend.

Now, he could not recall the last time she had done exactly that. Their marriage had not exactly grown strained or cold, but Dior would be a fool were he to say nothing had changed at all. Things _had_ changed, and he felt a sad emptiness tighten in his chest at the thought of that. He felt guilty, and frustrated. _Frustrated_ for having allowed it to become distant in the first place.

He knew not if it was due to the Fëanorian’s mere presence, or perhaps the rising threat of the enemy’s dark numbers, but Nimloth had grown reticent. She would come home late every night, and be gone by the morning. Hardly did she join him for dinner; he could not recall the last time they had shared a breakfast in bed; and rarely did they make love.

Dior’s stomach twisted. 

_No_, he thought to himself. That was selfish of him to think. She had her own duties to attend to, as did he. She was busy. It was not wise to put any blame on her. If anything, it was his doing.

It was _he_ who had invited the Fëanorians into the kingdom; _he_ who had clasped the Silmaril around his neck and allowed it to ensnare him; _he_ who had fallen ill and become bedridden for a _week_. Not she, but _he_. 

Sighing deeply, Dior forced himself out of bed, shivering when his feet made contact with the cold floor. With heavy steps he walked towards his closet, rubbing his bruised wrists with a frown, before swinging the doors open. Irritated, he grabbed the first robes his eyes laid upon, seeing that they were not blue but simple, light and emerald green. There were no jewels or shimmering stones adorning the fine fabric; no fine embroidery or aching textures; _nothing_.

Quickly, he put them on, leaving his night-robes abandoned and a heap upon the floor. He was sure someone would take care of them for him. 

His hair was another tiring matter to attend to, and although the nagging voice in his mind advised him to handle it properly, he felt no desire to. Instead, he swiftly pulled it back into what he hoped was a bun. Fearful that it was too messy, he added a pin in the shape of autumn leaves in hopes of brightening it, trusting that it was a fine and respectable touch that would keep people from staring. 

When he did at last exit his chambers, he knew not where his feet led him, only that he could not stay a minute longer in his room. He did not feel particularly hungry, but the thought of warm tea and fresh pastries did awake an appetite that he had lost more than a week ago. 

When was the last time he had eaten? He could not recall.

With no desire to eat in his own room, not sure if he had the mental strength to eat alone, he quietly made his way to the kitchens. The halls were many and long, and at times Dior knew not where he was going. Years of living in the palace did little help when one’s home consisted of more than a thousand caves. 

However, he found himself stopping in his steps at the sound of faint laughter, echoing as ringing bells in the distance. Not the giggles of swooning elf-maids but those who belonged to children. _His_ children, to be precise.

Eyes wide, he followed the sound of their voices. 

Dior made sure that each step he took was soundless, not wanting to startle whatever they were doing. Although he would often find himself scolding them for mischievous acts and too common misbehaviours, he could not help but at times adore the troubles they would wind themselves into, and often thought back at the memories in great fondness. 

However, he was surprised to find that they were not alone, for two other voices accompanied their own: 

“There is_ no way_ that happened!” Dior could recognise Elurín’s voice from miles away, but the one that answered to him was unfamiliar and foreign. 

“You don’t believe me?” Although the accent was harsh, the voice itself was gentle, and spoken with light fondness. 

“How could a _skunk_ sneak up on you?” Eluréd asked, sounding both intrigued and mildly disgusted. 

“Oh, skunks are _very_ light on their feet...” There was a low laughter, and the boys giggled in return. Dior pressed his back against the wall, moving closer to the corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was unfolding. “They’re dangerous beasts, in my humble opinion. I would label them as predators, although many would disagree. Nonetheless: The skunk _did_ spray me, and it was absolutely the worst smell you could possibly think of!”

“It’s true.” Another voice agreed softly, much similar to the one before. “The scent stuck with him for a _week_. He smelled so awful that our mother forbid him to sit by the family table while we ate, and he had to sit outside if he wished to eat supper.”

There was more laughter, but Elurín’s small voice of concern quickly conquered it: 

“You had to eat _alone_?”

”Oh, it was no trouble.” The person was quick to assure him, sounding cheerful. “It was more peaceful outside, anyways, without anyone nagging me. Not to mention that I had the stars to keep me company. They’re much different in Aman, you see...” 

Giving up to temptation, Dior dared a glimpse over the corner, where he was met with a surprising but warming sight.

The twins were small in comparison to the tall Elves that towered before them, smiling down at the elflings with genuine and soft fondness. Amrod and Amras mirrored each other in face and height just as much as Eluréd and Elurín did, although one’s shade of copper hair was darker than the other’s. 

Dior felt a smile tug at his lips. The boys were charmers, and it did not surprise him that they had already made acquaintances with not one but _two_ of the sons of Fëanor. It made him feel glad, to know that in spite of all the rivalry, there was still kindness to be shared.

Not wanting to interrupt their conversation, Dior slowly backed away, only to find his back colliding against something solid and hard. Before he could turn, however, a hand was quick to seize his forearm, twisting it behind his back so that it drew out a soft whine from his lips. 

“_Careful_.”

Eyes widening, Dior’s heart sank at the sound of the familiar voice. Turning his head, he glimpsed silver hair, and sharp canines that adorned a perfect smile. _Feral_, the voice in his mind warned him. _Dangerous_. Celegorm was an elf with a tainted reputation, and although none of the sons of Fëanor came off as clean, he was perhaps the worst of them all. 

It was he, alongside Curufin, who had betrayed his mother and brought her to Nargothrond. It was he who had clutched tightly onto the vain hopes of marrying her; who had taken her captive and held her prisoner. Beren had nearly _killed_ Curufin, and it would not surprise Dior if Celegorm loathed his parents deeply for their actions. The rest was no mystery: Dior knew that Celegorm was forcing the anger and hatred he had towards them upon him.

Burying his nose in Dior’s hair, he inhaled the scent of the peredhel, and laughed lowly when Dior visibly cringed and struggled in his grip. 

“We still haven’t received what you promised us, _Eluchíl_...” he said slowly, the grip around Dior’s forearm tightening. Sharp nails dug into the king’s skin, causing him to wince. “Perchance I should remind you...”

“No need,” Dior breathed, leaning away, surprised to find that he had managed to answer at all. “I have not forgotten.”

”Hm.” Celegorm hummed, not satisfied, although he at last let go of him. But before Dior managed to move away, he found himself roughly slammed against the wall; so harshly that all air abandoned his lungs within the split of a second. He could only hope that the boys had not heard. 

He met Celegorm’s sharp gaze with intense heat. For a moment, Dior feared the hunter would hurt him. He half expected a blow to the stomach, or perhaps a hard punch across the face. Pinching his eyes shut, he hoped it would be fleeting, and silently dreaded for whatever would come.

However, much to his surprise and confusion, there came no pain. Instead there was only silence, one that was heavy and full of tension. Slowly, Dior opened his eyes, and when he did a gentle finger cupped his chin, urging him to look up and meet the Fëanorian’s gaze.

Celegorm’s eyes were silver. Unlike the eldest of the brothers, they did not hold the strange emptiness that Maedhros’ did. Instead, they were wild; untamed as the wind; the feral eyes of not a prince but a hunter. It was not the wildness found in freedom but something else; something much darker and twisted.

Celegorm smiled. It was vicious. 

“You look _just_ like her...” he whispered in near disbelief, to no one but himself, before erupting into a cold, uneven laughter. Dior’s eyes widened, and although he tried to gather together whatever strength he had, he was unable to find his voice. Instead, he averted his gaze and looked down.

Immediately, the forefinger beneath his chin tugged harshly, forcing him to meet the hunter’s gaze, and a calloused thumb came to graze over his lower lip. “You have her face. Her eyes; her hair; her lips... So pretty and delicate. So _lovely_...” 

Dior could not breathe. It was as if time stood still, and he was a prisoner chained to its mercy. All he could do was gaze into the fire trapped within Celegorm’s eyes; flames that burned bright and hot. 

Proudly, the hunter raised a fine brow. A smile tugged at his lips, one that Dior shamefully thought of as attractive, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. Before he managed to say a word, however, he was silenced by another voice; one that was stern and heavy with haughty warning: 

“_Hautalyë, _Tyelkormo_.”_

Celegorm’s head snapped furiously at the sound of the intruder’s voice, and seeing the chance of an exit Dior ducked beneath his arm, slipping away from the Fëanorian’s reach. At the end of the corridor stood Maedhros, approaching them with dutiful steps and the cold of winter in his empty eyes. 

He looked nothing alike a lord but rather a prince – no, a _king_. The fire within his eyes burned brighter than Celegorm’s.

Dior was taken aback at the sight. Not by fear or intimidation but rather shock. Maedhros wore not the flaunting colours of his father’s House. There was not a sight of red or black; and although his hair was ever alike dancing fire, there was no eight pointed star upon his chest.

Instead, he wore robes of simple grey; the fabric soft and light with fine, silver embroidery of leaves and garlands sown upon it. He was clothed alike the Sindar; the very robes Dior had picked. 

It was an opposite style compared to the Ñoldor’s choice of fashion, but it suited the lord still. Dior could admit that. 

Celegorm glared at his brother, visibly angered, as he slowly lowered his hand. He said something harsh in Quenya, in which Maedhros answered calmly. In return Celegorm offered what sounded like a snark remark. Then, anger at last flashed through Maedhros’ own eyes, and when he spoke a third time he did so firmly; with a low growl in the depth of his throat.

At last, Celegorm back away, leaving with not a word or a sound; although the fury in his eyes burned hot and wild.

Only then did Dior allow himself to breathe.

The silence that fell was light, but when Maedhros’ stern gaze met Dior’s, the atmosphere shifted to heavy, and it swiftly turned tense and unbearable. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. 

Dior opened his mouth, but found that no words slipped out. He had not the strength to speak first. _Say something_, he thought to himself, unable to tear his gaze away. _Anything_! _Tell him that you’re grateful; say thank you_! But he could not, although he should have. 

Subconsciously, he pinched his wrist, wincing at the spasm that flared up his arm. Maedhros’ gaze immediately trailed down towards Dior’s hands, and something shifted within his eyes as he furrowed his brows. At last, the lord opened his mouth as if to speak, but never got the chance to:

Dior startled at the sensation of someone tugging at his robes. Swiftly, he turned around, relieved to find that it was only his son; who peered up at him with curious, starlit eyes. Behind him stood Eluréd, and a short distance away the Ambarussa, shifting uncomfortably where they stood. 

“Ada, what are you doing here?” Elurín asked him, blinking slowly. “Nana said that you were tired, and that you would rest all day.” 

_Did she_? Dior thought to himself amusedly. Slowly, he bent down to pick up the elfling, planting a light kiss upon the child’s cheek before taking the hand of Eluréd, who approached him hastily. “Well... I’m awake now, and I would love for you to join me for lunch.” Both boys nodded eagerly, knowing that their father would without doubt sneak some sweets into their mouths.

At the sound of quiet footsteps, Dior raised his gaze to find that Amrod and Amras were turning away with uncomfortable looks on their faces, both of them visibly tensed. It was the look of guilt, as if they had committed something they should not have done. Dior had a feeling it had something to do with his own two sons.

“My lords,” he called softly, causing the two of them to halt in their steps. One of them turned, and Dior was abashed to find that he recognised not who, to meet his gaze.

Shifting Elurín in his arms, he smiled warmly at them: “Would the two of you care to join us?” 

Both of them seemed visibly taken aback by the question, but neither rejected the offer. Instead, they bowed their heads respectively, soft smiles lighting their faces. 

Already was Eluréd leading the two brothers away, chattering on about his favourite foods and desserts as any child would; and both eagerly listened to each thing the elfling had to say. Dior did not immediately follow them. Instead, he turned around, prepared to offer Maedhros his gratitude, and if the lord would not mind then to accompany them for lunch as well.

However, he was surprised to find himself greeting empty hallway, and not even the whisper of a person having ever stood there in the first place. Maedhros was gone. 

“Ada?” Elurín asked softly, placing a small hand upon Dior’s cheek, drawing him away from his trance. “What’s wrong?”

”Nothing,” Dior whispered, shaking his head. Shifting Elurín in his arms, he slowly trailed after the faint sound of Eluréd’s voice that echoed cheerfully in the distance. However, he could not bring himself to tear his gaze away from the empty space where Maedhros had stood less than a minute ago. “Nothing at all...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Not really proud of this one, rewrote it three times due to frustration & it acts more as a filler, but hope you guys enjoyed nonetheless<3  
(Note) if you get the impression that Dior is weak, allow me to clarify: I do not view Dior as weak but young, deeply empathetic and a person that would try to avoid the path of violence. Canonically, he was the one who killed Celegorm(just a reminder;p)
> 
> Translation(s):  
Hautalyë: (you) stop


	11. Woes

The flames danced idly in imperfect harmony. 

They were light and they were death. Warmth and cold. It did not matter how fairly they trembled and blazed; casting forth deep shadows that swayed and cascaded upon the walls, Dior found that he could not stare at the moving fire. Not when the wooden box sat such a short distance away.

Even amidst the sounds of a cackling hearth and splintering wood, the jewel sang softly to those who only had the ears to hear. The voice was quiet, a shadow of what it once had been before, but it was not lost in the night. Dior could hear it, and alike a siren he could feel it beckoning him with a luring song. 

Deep inside, his heart called for him to keep it. After all, it had been she, alongside his father, who had plucked it from Morgoth’s crown. They had done what the sons of Fëanor could not. Beren One-Handed and Lúthien, daughter of twilight. 

She had been a sweet light to the Sindar’s dark and gloomy world; a princess loved dearly by all. A nightingale, so lovely and fair, who had done nothing but blessed the kingdom with pretty songs.

But she was gone. _Lost_. The Silmaril was the only possession Dior had left that used to belong to her. He turned away from the moving flames, feeling a strange numbness tug at his heart.

It was the only thing he had left that reminded him of her. 

Could the people forgive him? They were still deep in their sorrows, mourning for their loss, and it would not do well to take away the only salve that could mend their wounds. But would the jewel seal their tears or infect them? Would keeping it only worsen their woes? Dior knew not. 

Dior was not sure he knew anything at all. 

Adding onto his misery, he found that he craved not the presence of Nimloth, his wife, who was perchance the only person who could soothe his sorrows; and although the thought of his children was tempting, he found that he did not long for them either. He wanted –

He wanted his parents. 

Drawing his knees to his chest, he thought of simpler times, back to his childhood and his youth. In his memories, there was always sunlight; and Arien’s beaming rays would touch his skin and kiss it bronze. Nowadays, he rarely left the caves, and at times he seemed paler than snow.

Every night he would think of their faces alive before him, for he feared he would one day forget. Only then would they ever truly be lost. 

Oh, what he would _give_ only to be able to press his face against his father’s chest and listen to the steady beating of his heart. To have his mother’s fingers thread through his fine hair, humming to a tune of content and peace. To listen to them simply _talk_ and laugh for hours during quiet evenings while the rain poured mercilessly outside.

To not have to be a king for just a _moment_ but a child once again; tucked far away in a small cabin amidst green woods; not suffocated as he felt now within palace walls. 

He missed them. 

He missed them a lot. 

Closing his eyes, feeling as if though his heart trembled where it sat caged in his chest, the king of Doriath allowed himself to shed a single tear. The fire was still burning, and the jewel still sang its hollow tune. Dior ignored them both. 

Then, there was a knock at the door, startling him out of his sorrows. Eyes wide, he swiftly turned his head towards the sound. _Oh_. He had nearly forgotten about _that_.

Quickly, he wiped the tear away with a shaking hand; hoping that no sign of its existence lingered. _Breathe_, he tried to remind himself whilst rising up, feeling how his legs were unsteady.

Straightening his robes, he tucked fallen strands of hair behind his ears, and bid a silent prayer to whatever Vala cared to listen that he looked both dignified and presentable. 

Drawing in a deep breath and clasping his hands together before him in order to refrain them from shaking, Dior spoke softly: 

“Come in.” 

Maedhros entered alone. 

Whatever speech Dior had prepared completely washed away from his mind at the sight of the tall elf. The lord of Himring still wore the light grey robes from before, although this time he had a ring upon his index finger, one in the shape of an eight pointed star. When he closed the door behind himself, silence fell as a swift and strong tide. The Silmaril had stopped singing. 

Dior offered a weak smile. “Good evening.”

Maedhros met his eyes. “Evening.”

Silence returned, this time agonising and slow. Dior shifted awkwardly upon his feet.

”Please, have a seat...” He began, but quickly worried that the request may have sounded like a command. “_Only_ if you wish to, my lord – of course, if you would rather stand...”

”Sitting is fine,” Maedhros said softly, slowly approaching where Dior stood. His steps echoed heavily throughout the room, but they were not threatening. 

The tall lord chose an armchair the further from Dior’s own seat, and already were his eyes fixated on the box upon the table, although he made no comment about it. Slowly, he took a seat. 

Dior was quick to follow, and it took him a moment to gather the strength to speak:

“I... want to apologise for all of this mess,” he decided to say, hoping that it was a trustworthy start. “I wish I could turn back time and fix my mistake; _undo_ my decision... I’m sorry.”

The lord of Himring stared at him for an achingly long moment; eyes distant and face unreadable. It was as if he was not looking at Dior but rather through him. Then, he turned away, averting his gaze towards the flames: 

“I’m sure most of us long for the ability to do such a thing,” he answered slowly, voice rasp and deep. “Undoing miscalculated decisions, that is...”

Dior blinked widely. Was the lord Maedhros making _small-talk_? He had half expected the lord of Himring to remain silent, and quietly depart with the Silmaril when they were done. The peredhel found himself smiling: 

“It would make things much easier, would it not?” He asked, leaning forward so that his elbows were perched upon his knees.

In his head, he could hear the royal court scolding him for his improper position, and smiled at the thought of them reacting to how he sat now in the presence of a Ñoldorin lord. He nearly laughed. They would be absolutely _appalled_. 

When he looked up, he found that Maedhros was already staring at him. Dior felt heat pool into his cheeks within seconds, and it took him a moment to realise that he was blushing. 

He turned away, unable to bear the cold fire that blazed within those silver eyes. 

“I struggle to make decisions...” Dior admitted quietly, leaning back into his seat. Nervously, he began to fiddle with his hands. “But I suppose you are familiar with such things? The weigh of a crown? The burdens of being king?” 

Maedhros’ gaze strayed down to Dior’s hands.

“Yes.”

Those empty, grey eyes lingered upon his wrists, glaring at the bruises that were wrapped around them as serpents. Dior crossed his legs, oblivious to the staring:

“Well... I hope – I _know_ – that this decision is not a false one.” His fingers twitched. “The Silmaril... is yours by rights. I know that many of my people would argue that since my parents were the ones who retrieved it from _Belegurth_, I have rights to lay claim to it. I bid you to ignore these people, my lord, as I have. It was your father who created the Silmarils. It would be ill of me to keep it.”

Surprisingly, the words flowed freely from his lips. He felt no hesitation when he spoke, and although he could hear the jewel calling to him sadly; begging for him to not let it go, he found that he cared not for its cries. They fell deaf upon his ears. 

“I had hoped to... make amends with you, my lord.” He continued, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Not just for my wrongdoings, but my grandfather’s as well. I think it was... harsh of him to speak so unwell about you and your people, and that his ban for the usage of your language was an ill decision that was made in anger. I would like to erase those laws, and that no grudges be between our people.” 

Maedhros spoke, though his gaze did not stray from Dior’s wrists. “What are you suggesting?” 

The king drew in a deep breath, and this time he did fumble with his words. “I am suggesting – well, I’m offering – no, _suggesting_ that perhaps, if you, my lord, would agree with my offer... no, I apologise, if you, my lord, would _accept_ my offer– and of course, you are free to decline or accept with no punishment at all– not that there was any punishment to begin with...”

To his absolute horror, Dior found himself rambling; struggling to find the right words. How does one suggest an alliance? Sneakily drop a hint? Bring it up as a topic? Bluntly suggest it? Feeling anxious, his shaking fingers began to stray towards his wrists.

_Breathe_, he tried to tell himself._ Pull yourself together! Breathe, just breathe and finish_...

Though before he could decide against it, he found himself involuntarily in his absent-mindedness _pinch_ his left wrist; so tightly that he could not help but wince, surprised by the electrifying pain. 

Spasm ignited through his entire arm within the width of a second, and hissing through gritted teeth he quickly tucked his hand away, hoping that the small scenery would pass by unnoticed.

However, when he raised his gaze to meet Maedhros’, he found that the old lord’s eyes had turned cold, and that he was glaring.

Dior felt his own heart stop beating where it had been pounding rapidly against his chest only moments before. Maedhros stood up. 

“Did I _not_ tell you to stop doing that?” He asked, voice low and tight.

“I—“ Dior tried, but was quickly cut off:

“Did I not?” Not once did Maedhros raise his voice, but it mattered not. He could have screamed and it would have made no difference. The lord of Himring was _intimidating_. 

”My lord—“

”Did you not listen or could you not hear?” He demanded hotly, the glow within his eyes blazing. It burned white.

Dior’s eyes widened, but where he should have felt fear he found himself instead engulfed by mild anger: 

“I apologise, my lord, but I think as _king_ I am fit to do whatever I please.” Maedhros pretended not to listen. He approached Dior where he sat, and immediately the peredhel was upon his feet. 

“Are you incapable of following a simple order? Do you have any shred of dignity you are able to maintain?” He asked, voice dangerously low. He stood dangerously close, so close that Dior had to crane his neck in order to hold his gaze. 

“_Dignity_?” The king asked, startled, feeling insulted for whatever little pride he had. “Forgive me, my lord, but I do not think that you are in power to question _my_ dignity–“

Maedhros barked out a laugh. “Oh, am I not? Who then will dare say it? Surely, not the lords of your court who would rather simply kiss your feet and lick the ground you walk. They have not the voice to tell you but _I_ do.” He took in a deep breath, and when he continued his words were cold: 

“You are _weak_, Eluchíl, and it is time you do something about it. A weak king equals a weak kingdom. A weak kingdom is a vulnerable one.”

For a moment, Dior found himself speechless. The sentence had been blunt, swift and cruel. It had _hurt._ The lord of Himring _did_ have a solid point; but Dior would not be so easily triumphed. 

He found himself _glaring_ at the old lord. “That is where you are wrong, _Nelyafinwë_. It is difficult to run a kingdom when your voice goes unheard! Do you know how often my councillors advised me _not_ to give you the Silmaril? I ignored them all! This is what _I_ decided to do, not they. It is I who has decided to give you the Silmaril. Would you judge that a _weak_ decision made by a _weak_ king, my lord?” 

Maedhros was silent. His eyes were still ablaze, but the heat had worn off, and the lord’s mouth was drawn into a thin line. For a moment, Dior judged himself victorious. 

“You will be surprised to find that people don’t judge based on decisions,” Maedhros then said, lowly. “You call yourself a king, then be one. You must not just act but look the part as well. Those bruises upon your wrists are a sign of weakness. Those who have the power will eat you raw. _Conceal_ them.”

Each word fell down hard. If Maedhros had meant to hurt him, then he succeeded. Dior had the urge to cry. Instead, he gathered the remainder of his strength to build up a reaction. In his disbelief and wounded fury, he fumbled for words:

“_Look_ the part? _You_, of all people, are not in the position to talk about–“ Dior caught his tongue mid-sentence, and wide eyed stared at the lord before him, who made no reaction.

For a moment, there was nothing but dead silence. 

“What?” Maedhros asked quietly, and although his face was unreadable his eyes betrayed him. Dior had reached a weak spot. It had hurt. “Am I not in position to talk about _what_?” 

A wave of guilt washed over Dior along with agonising regret. Suddenly, he felt _horrible_. Maedhros had not deserved that. 

_A, Elbereth_...

Closing his eyes, the young king crumbled down into his seat in both exhaustion and defeat, burying his face in his palms with an exhale that trembled. 

There was silence for a _very_ long time. Maedhros did not move from where he stood. The jewel was singing again. Its song resembled distant laughter. 

“I’m sorry,” Dior whispered into the air, fingers shaking. “I’m sorry...”

Maedhros did not answer.

Slowly, Dior peered up at the Fëanorion through the cracks of his fingers, unsure of what to expect. The lord of Himring was staring down at him, but this time his eyes had turned cold again, as if a curtain had been drawn to shield the fire and his emotions. Guilt clawed at Dior’s throat, and he knew not whether to scream or weep. 

“I can’t help it,” he said meekly, lowering his hands that still trembled. Pulling his knees to his chest, Dior perched his chin upon them, feeling the weigh of his bottled grief press down upon his shoulders. It was _exhausting_.

Suddenly, he felt _very_ cold; and the hearth seemed nothing but a distant stranger in the room:

“Sometimes, when I’m in a situation I can’t escape, it’s as if the whole world fades away except for the very thing I have to face. Suddenly, it’s as if I can’t move – and I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything but –“ defeatedly he raised his hands, and glared at the bruises that were wrapped all around his wrists. 

Maedhros stared at them in silence.

When Dior spoke again, his voice was only a breath above a whisper: “I know it’s pathetic, but it helps. Pinching _helps_.” 

His mother had taught him that, although she had instructed him not to pinch but hum. However, after her death, Dior had found himself unable to distract himself with gentle crooning. His mind would always drift to her, and then he would be reminded that she was gone.

She was gone, and she would never return. 

Thinking of her only made things worse, so in his grief he had been forced to find another method. It did not matter that pinching hurt, all that mattered was that it _worked.   
_

Dior expected Maedhros to leave. To grab the wooden box and escape through the night, abandoning Dior in his sorrows. Never again would the lord of Himring set foot in Doriath, and the sons of Fëanor would continue their maddening quest; their oath now partly fulfilled.

But to his surprise, no such thing happened. Instead, he felt a calloused hand take ahold of his right wrist. The touch was gentle, eminently mellow, and looking up Dior watched as Maedhros drew it closer for him to inspect.

The lord of Himring watched each bruise with intense scrutiny, grazing his thumb over every marred skin he could reach, barely touching, as if he feared to cause any pain. When his grey eyes met Dior’s, Maedhros held the king’s gaze, as if daring him to look away. 

Dior did not. 

Then, he let go. “I know it helps,” he said quietly, turning away. The old lord stared coldly at the dancing flames. “I _know. _Do you know how often I did exactly that? How many hours and nights I spent and wasted lying awake, scratching and clawing at _this_.”

He raised his right hand, or where there should have been a hand, but instead was only a heavily scarred stump; marked by once broken and now healed tissue.

Dior stared at it with fascination. Although he had heard the story numerous of times before, of how Maedhros had lost his right hand, it was the first time Dior _truly_ noticed the lack of limb.

His father had been called Erchamion, but it would seem that Maedhros had no such title to carry. There was no glory to his tale. 

“It helps, but only for a time,” he whispered. “_Yes_, it _helps,_ but at what cost? It’s not a solution. Only a temporary escape.” 

Dior felt a tear slide down his cheek, and quickly wiped it away, surprised to find himself crying. He knew not whether it was the guilt or regret, but he felt that something tugged achingly at his heart.

“My lord,” he called softly, but found that he had nothing to say.

What was there to say? 

At last, Maedhros turned to him. In the firelight the scars on his face shone silver. “Are we done then?” He asked, casting a glance at the box. “Are we finished?” 

_Oh_. Dior thought to himself, disappointed. A strange part of him did not want for them to be finished. But just as he was was about to nod his head, he found himself hesitating.

Before him, he could see his mother dancing; laughing prettily with the Silmaril clasped around her throat. Birds flew and sang all around her, and her eyes were alight with the stars. 

The jewel was still singing to him. It was _pleading_. 

Dior ignored it. 

“Yes,” he whispered, and before him the image of his mother began to wither. Her white feet turned grey, and the light in her eyes dwindled. The jewel’s songs turned into cries once again.

“Well, no –,” he breathed, but was quick to clarify when Maedhros’ brows furrowed. ”I mean, _yes_ for the jewel, but there are other matters I would like to discuss with you...”

_Now or never_, Dior thought to himself, ignoring the wooden box that taunted him with its weeps.

Raising his gaze, he met Maedhros’ cold eyes with intensity. _This is for the benefit of my people_. Maedhros blinked, waiting. _For his people_. Dior drew in a deep breath, heart unsteady. _For our people_.  
  
Then, he began to talk.  
  
And Maedhros listened. 

What should have taken a single evening stretched into the night; and by the time they finished talking, morning was already within their reach. 

At last, when done, Dior stood up from his seat. Raising his right hand, he smiled tiredly at the lord before him:

“Peace?” He asked, hopeful. Maedhros said no word, but stared at the stretched hand with a neutral expression.

Realisation came to Dior slowly. When it finally did settle, he was quick to drop his hand and sheepishly raised the left one instead. 

“Peace?” He tried again, feeling himself blushing. This time, Maedhros clasped it tightly, shaking it with rough but steady sincerity. The lord’s eyes were solemn as he nodded. 

It was decided that the lord of Himring would be staying for another week in matters of negotiation. No doubt, it would cause an outrage; but looking at Maedhros, Dior found that he did not mind.

He did not mind at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is staying for another week! Woohoo, any ideas of what might happen ?  
Anyhow, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter of only Dior/Maedhros interacting. They’re getting, ahem, rather close, aren’t they?  
Oh, and merry late Christmas, hope you guys had it wonderful! And if you don’t celebrate the holidays, I hope you guys had a great and lovely time nonetheless ♡  
Translation(s):  
Belegurth: Morgoth  
Elbereth: Varda


	12. A Fell Foresight

There was once a time when breakfast used to be peaceful.

Simpler years, back when Dior’s marriage had still been young, and the boys not big enough to leave their bassinets. The royal house had always been a rather strange family, still evidently deep in their sorrows and not yet healed of their wounds. Even so, Dior could tell something was off.

Something was not right at all. 

Nimloth was sat beside him, and although she tried her utterly best to keep the mood both light and cheerful, it was visible that even she was not immune to the strained atmosphere. How everyone refused to meet each other’s gaze, and how no one exchanged words.

Dior studied them carefully.

Opposite himself was Celeborn, who was gratefully both silent and well-mannered, sipping slowly on his tea. To his left was the lady Galadriel, but her plate was empty, and she was staring at it with a disdainful look in her eyes. 

For a faint moment, she raised her head and met Dior’s gaze, as if she had felt him staring; but he quickly looked away before it would become awkward. Not that it was not awkward already.

The silence only stretched on.

Then, Galadhon spoke: “Galathil, could you pass me the the berries?” He asked, trying his best to clear it.

”Mhm.” His son hummed, quickly complying, as if he too desired to rid the room of its tension. 

Dior looked down at his own plate. He did not feel hungry. He was not sure he had any appetite at all. No matter how people tried to perceive him, he was no fool. He knew exactly _why_ everyone was acting so strange. 

Suddenly, a hand came to rest upon his, and looking up he met Nimloth’s gaze, who appeared concerned. He tried to offer her a reassuring smile in return, but it was more of a grimace.   
  
The minutes stretched on achingly slow, and the tension only grew with it. The boys acted, for the most part, oblivious to it. Eluréd would tease Elurín, who would whine, and in the end both of them would receive a scolding or a hard look from their mother. Dior knew, however, that they were completely aware of the tension. They simply chose to ignore it.

The king refrained himself from smiling fondly. If only he could do such a thing...

Perhaps he could try, and breakfast would pass swiftly without further trouble.

Then, Oropher spoke, although Dior would have rather had him remain silent:

”So,” he said, tone both light and awfully friendly: “I have noticed that our _guests_ have yet to leave. Though it would seem that the Silmaril... is no longer in your keeping?” 

Everyone, save for Galadriel, visibly tensed at his comment. Dior looked up to meet his kingsman’s eyes, who took a gentle bite of his toast with with a daring look on his face. Dior found himself frowning:

“Yes,” the king answered gently, pouring himself some tea. He raised an eyebrow, daring Oropher in return: “Would you judge that to be a bad thing?” 

”What?” Oropher asked lightly, taking another bite of his toast, this time rougher. “The Silmaril or the _Gelydh_?” 

Silence fell, and it lasted for a long time.

Dior stared at Oropher, refusing to break eye contact: “Save it,” he said after a heated moment, averting his gaze. “I already know your answer.” 

Then, Oropher slammed his fist upon the solid surface, startling everyone by the table: 

“_Why_ are they still here?” 

Dior almost rolled his eyes. Almost. 

”They won’t be here for long,” He answered curtly, reaching for Nimloth’s hand beneath the table and clutching onto it tightly. He only calmed down when felt her squeeze his hand in return. “Celegorm and Curufin are to leave before noon, and Caranthir has already departed. As for Maglor: he will be gone before the sun sets...” 

”And?” Oropher asked through greeted teeth. 

Dior did not falter, his tone blunt: “There is no ‘_and’_.” 

Oropher laughed. It was a strange sound; friendly yet mocking. As if Dior had told him a joke. “Now, forgive me, your majesty, but it would seem that you’re implying that... _three_ of the sons of Fëanor are staying...”

No one said a word. Dior studied his kinsman, the grip the poor elf had upon his fork, and the slight vein upon his neck. He was angry. Furious, to be more precise. It made Dior hesitate. 

Maedhros’ words echoed deeply in his mind, harsh and cold. _You are weak, Eluchíl_...  
  
The king gritted his teeth. _I am not_. 

Galadhon, sensing that the silence was without doubt the calm before the storm, cleared his throat: “Galathil, could you pass me the sugar—“

“Yes.” Dior answered coolly, although his grip on Nimloth’s hand tightened. “That is _exactly_ what I am saying.” 

Oropher stood up, the shriek of his chair echoing nastily throughout the room, causing the twins to flinch where they were sat. 

”The _sugar_, Galathil, the sugar—“ Galadhon struggled, but to no use. Everyone was staring at Oropher, who was glaring at the king.

“Might I ask _why_?”

“That is none of your concern—“

”It _isn’t_?” Oropher demanded, voice rising so that it was only a whisper beneath a shout. “It is the concern of the _people_, your majesty! Have you not the mind to see? Why do you welcome these _kinslayers_ into your own halls?!” 

”Sit down!” Nimloth hissed, coming to her husband’s defence. “Sit or _leave_.”

”Ah, so you agree with him, do you? Were you even aware of this?” Oropher asked her lowly, eyes darting from her to Dior. “Of this... irrational decision?” 

”_Farn_, uncle—“ Celeborn tried, but to no avail. 

“Surely, I’m not the only one to question this—“

”You are in _no_ position to question!” Galathil said harshly, and the twins flinched at the sound of their grandfather’s grave voice. Galathil was a kind and composed elf. Seeing him riled up was a rare and unwelcoming sight. 

”Then who is?” Oropher sneered at his kinsman. “I know others have whispered the same thing. You leave a flame to tend for itself and the fire will spread. _Rumours_ become reality. The people have begun to talk; and they don’t believe him _fit_ to be king.”

Dior’s eyes widened.

”Silence!” Galadhon growled, gripping onto the table as if he was restraining himself from doing something stupid. He glared warningly at the elf: “_You_ be quiet—“ 

Oropher did not listen. Instead, he turned to Galadriel, who was the only one still visibly composed. _Visibly_. Dior knew that deep inside, she was no different from the rest. He could _feel_ her bottled anger from where he was sitting. 

“What of you, my lady?” Oropher asked, his voice now low and soft. “What is _your_ opinion on this matter?”

Slowly, she turned her head to meet Dior’s gaze with an empty expression. However, her eyes told him a different tale. Rage was being delicately kept away. She said nothing.

Oropher appeared irritated again: “This cannot go unsaid!” He said, leaning over the table. “Our king has obviously not received correct council. We _must_ advise against ill decisions!”

Silence fell swiftly. One could have heard a needle drop.

For the first time in his lifetime, Dior felt _angry_. Not the light irritation that came to him often whenever things went awry or his voice would go unheard during council meetings; but true and deep _anger_.

He felt insulted, for a pride he knew not he had. 

Suddenly, it was as if the atmosphere had dropped, and there was no warmth at all when Dior spoke: “You think my decision is _ill_?” 

Oropher did not hesitate: “I think it is unwise and not properly thought out.” 

“You don’t think I have thought this through?” Dior asked calmly, although his grip on Nimloth’s hands tightened to the point where she winced beside him. 

”I think it was rashly done.” Oropher answered curtly, slamming his hands against the table so that the dishes and utensils jumped with a clatter. “Your majesty, _please_. I know that with the right council you will make a correct decision. I know you to be a wise and just king—“

”No, you don’t know me at all!” Dior hollered, rising in his seat, startling even himself. He _never_ yelled, never dared raise his voice, and yet he found himself ignoring Nimloth’s gentle tugging of his robes.

It was as if an unnatural force had taken ahold of him. As if years of bottled rage were unleashing all at once, lashing out on those nearby, and he could do _nothing_. 

Celeborn, for the first time, appeared concerned: 

“My king–“ but Dior cut him off, unable to refrain himself: 

“You – _all_ of you – treat me as a child! As if I am incapable of making decisions of my own! I do not need you to pester me into a false decision that will lead me to my demise!” 

With each word harshly spoke, the porcelain cups upon the table began to crack. Thin lines wound themselves around the delicate porcelain, turning it ugly. No one noticed. 

Oropher’s eyes widened. At last the elf expressed regret for his rash words, and appeared sheepish. “You misunderstand me, my king—“

”No,” Dior said, glaring. “I think I have you figured out pretty well.”

“Your majesty,” Galadhon spoke, his voice gentle and calm; a voice used on children. When Dior turned to look into his eyes he saw nothing but composure. “Oropher meant no harm. He only wants to see the kingdom safe and secure from anything that could destroy it.” He smiled before continuing:

“We only want people to respect you, and for you to become an admirable king that makes the right decisions.” 

In spite of his own humiliation, Dior felt tears forming in his eyes. Could they not _see_? Were they incapable of looking past their own pride, and see that the decision he had made would _ensure_ their safety and not weaken it?

He hesitated. _Could_ they see, but rather chose not to? 

For a moment, Dior wondered what would have happened had he followed their advice and laid claim to it in his mother’s name. Had he not surrendered the Silmaril to the sons of Fëanor. 

Closing his eyes, he felt his mind spiralling. Not further in time, nor to the past, but rather somewhere in between. A mirror that reflected their time, and yet led to nowhere. 

He heard a scream. 

There was blood. Both a splatter upon pale, marble tiles and a violent scent in the air. Around him steel clashed against steel, and his people screamed. Dior could see banners aflame, and heard the laughter of seven brothers. 

The forest was burning. 

Withering trees turned to dust, and in the darkness he could see children’s feet running through freezing, woodland floors. Behind them there followed a single flame, white and blazing, who called out their names. They did not answer to it, and in the darkness became lost.

The Silmaril then came to him, not as a jewel but a spirit, and it danced around a maiden. Looking into her eyes, Dior felt as if he should have recognised her, and yet she was nothing but a stranger. 

Eyes wide with horror and fear, she stretched a shaking hand towards him. Suddenly, a great wind came; and it rippled through her white gown and midnight hair. But before he could take her hand the spirit grabbed her by the neck and pulled her away, leaving nothing behind but a single, white feather.

Dior struggled after her, but found that there was no solid earth beneath his feet. Instead, he plummeted into deep, cold waters. Waves tossed him around, and he became lost in darkness. Seized by panic, he struggled towards the surface, all the while salt clawed at his throat and burned his lungs. 

In the distance, he could hear the jewel singing as he drowned. It was laughing at him. 

Then, there was nothing. Not even the wind.   
  


Dior gasped for breath as he was drawn back to the present time, startled by what he had seen. A foresight, perhaps?

He prayed not.

”My king,” Dior turned, wide-eyed, and faced Galathil. His father-in-law looked hesitant. “Are you alright?”

He did not _feel_ alright. The vision he had been gifted – no, _burdened_ – with was stitched in his mind; and he found himself unable to shun it. It was a loop that taunted him viciously, tossing him back and forth as the crude tides had done.

Realisation came to him. Even if they _could_ see, they would not care. The Silmaril blinded them with hubris, and they dared call it their love for Lúthien. Dior was only a puppet– 

A replacement. Nothing but a substitute to fill out the empty space a great king had left. 

He felt himself shaking. Was that all he was to them? A _trophy_ on display? Did they truly love him, or was that a part of their act? Was he merely a meek king to be meddled with; easily controlled with a tugging of a few strings? 

Suddenly, Maedhros’ words rung true. He _was_ a weak king, and he felt _humiliated_. He felt—

Cheated. Cheated for not having noticed. 

“Your majesty?” It was Celeborn. His kinsman’s eyes were steady as studied the king carefully. “Are you well?” 

Dior turned away, unable to bear the elf’s gaze. There was pity in his eyes. If there was one thing in the world that Dior could ever despise, it was _pity_. 

”My king?” Celeborn tried again.

“Please, _don’t_...” Dior whispered wearily, although he was unsure what he did not want Celeborn to do. _Anything. _For beneath the humiliation there was rage.

His fingers shook with effort as he tried to keep his anger tucked together. As he struggled to maintain the fury that threatened to strike.   
  
Unfortunately, Oropher was the next to speak: “Your majesty, if I may interject—“ 

“_DON’T_!” 

Within the split of a second everything around them shattered. Porcelain shards scattered through the air, once pretty and delicate now sharp and deadly. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as they were caught in the heat of chaos, and Dior saw nothing but horrified faces. 

Eyes wide with fear. 

Then, time returned to its natural pace, and screaming they all ducked away. Nimloth was the quickest, leaping towards her children and pulling them aside so that the shards would not fly to their faces, but others were not so swift. 

Oropher’s forearms were littered with small cuts, and he cursed loudly, crumbling to his knees in pain. Galadhon was clutching the side of his own face, shock evident on his features. Crimson blood pooled through the cracks of his fingers, staining his white robes red. 

Everything fell still. 

Dior drew his shaking hands over his mouth, startled. He could hear nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat. 

They were all looking at him. All staring.

The boys’ eyes were wide with fear. They were_ terrified_. 

“Your majesty, your _hair_–“ Panicked, Dior turned to face Celeborn, who visibly paled. “You’re bleeding.”

Looking down at his hands Dior could see that they were painted maroon, and soon enough the taste of iron filled his mouth. He found himself unable to breathe— 

“Dior—“ He turned, alert, to face someone. It was Nimloth. There were tears in her eyes.

Dior could not breathe. He brought his shaking fingers towards his throat, where the necklace had once been clasped. It was as if the jewel was choking him again.

Nimloth extended her hand, begging for him to take it. There were tears in her eyes. “Dior...” 

He looked at her hand. 

He looked at them. 

He— 

He could not stay a moment longer. 

With a sharp breath he turned away, ignoring their distressed calls after him. 

Pushing the doors open, he was met by a swarm of servants and guards, who had without doubt heard the turmoil from outside and grown either curious or concerned. Perhaps both. 

They all appeared startled by the sight of their king.

”Your majesty,” one of them called as Dior pushed himself through, ducking his head so that they would not see him.

They were wise enough not to follow.

The halls were a maze. Although he had spent many years living in Menegroth, he found himself clueless as to where he was going. There were a thousand corridors, a thousand caves, and they all lead to nowhere.

The kingdom was a prison. There was no escape. 

All he could see were their faces. The shattered porcelain; the fear in the boys’ eyes. Blood staining white robes, blood upon his hands... 

Feeling his stomach churn at the thought, Dior stumbled to his knees, coughing violently so that his throat burned. It felt raw, and his mind spun as he struggled to keep himself upright, leaning against the wall for support.

_Calm down_, he tried to tell himself, sucking in for air that refused to reach his lungs. He clasped a hand around his throat, struggling for breath. 

In the distance, he could hear footsteps and the distant echoes of voices. 

With great effort, he managed to pull himself up to his feet; staggering onward with both arms clutched around his torso. 

All he could feel was a strange weariness and _pain_. As if his spirit was urging him to rest, but at the same time his head was being _crushed _by the weigh of it. He could hardly feel his feet as he continued on forward, but he could not stop. Right now, he had not the strength to face them. 

Tears blurred his vision as he wandered aimlessly. Where was there to go? He turned left and then right, forward before turning right again, each time greeted by another hallway or a set corridors.

They were all empty. They all lead to nowhere.

But when he turned left again, he was surprised to find himself not greeted by another hallway or a dead end. Instead, he stumbled into the arms of a person, colliding against the solid surface of a broad and hard chest. 

For a moment panic seized him, and he feared that he had met a guard or a kinsman.

But the person said no word. They did not even move. Instead, Dior was engulfed by the stark scent of wood, smoke and faint hint of fur. 

The body pressed against his was sturdy and strong. The king found himself leaning against it, seeking for the warmth and support. It was as if everything had calmed down, and the storm had passed. 

Realisation came to him slowly, but even when it did, he was too weak to muster a reaction. He was too tired to do _anything_. 

Wearily, he raised his head and met the silver eyes of Celegorm. 

For faint a second, there was anger, and the hunter’s eyes lit aflame. It was the untamed wilderness; the fury found in a hunt. It burned hotly, and Dior feared he would be engulfed by it.

But just as quickly as it had appeared the fire was gone; replaced with confusion and concern.

For a moment, they held each other’s gaze, neither of them moving. Celegorm studied him closely, not with vicious malice but sincere worry. Knowing that no harm would come to him, Dior dropped his head; unable to keep it up a second longer, and leaned against the chest for support. 

Exhaustion pulled at his bones. Sleep beckoned him, and to his humiliation, he felt his legs give up beneath him.

However, he did not fall. The arms around him were strong. 

In the distance, he could hear hard footsteps and voices calling out his name; guards and cousins exchanging orders. Celegorm tensed against him. 

_Stay awake_, he tried to tell himself, but he found that he could not keep his eyes open. There was nothing but the cold. 

Darkness took ahold of him before he could even decide to fight against it.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is my first update in 2020, I want to wish you all a happy New Year<3! Also: thank you all for 100 kudos<3 ily & can only hope this chapter(yikes) is not a mess.  
Translation(s):  
Farn: enough  
Peredhel: half-elf  
Gelydh: Ñoldor(plural)  
[note: I posted this chapter in slight sleep deprivation, so when I re-read it the next morning I found terrible amount of mistakes, both grammar and other. I have fixed them. Thank you.]


	13. Beware

In the soft firelight, shadows danced upon the walls. They swayed and flickered as seconds would pass, until those seconds turned to minutes, and minutes stretched into aching hours.

Menegroth was a strange place. 

So much different from the great kingdoms of Aman, and not at all alike the small assemblies of men. The Sindar’s halls were a stark contrast to everything he had ever known. Nothing seemed familiar. 

Even time passed by alike a stranger. 

Dusk fell, and the abyss that made the night subtly followed. The fire blazed through it all, banishing the darkness that threatened to conquer the room. 

At times, he would see faces in the shadows. Faces that were wrought with evil, faces that laughed. Memories of dark cells and fell creatures would flood in alike thousands of waves and tides; leaving him drowning and breathless until the scars that marred him would ache.

Even in his sleep he was not free of his burdens, for nightmares would haunt him there. He would hear a dark laughter accompanying the hideous faces. In frightful panic he would wake up seizing his right wrist, only to find that there were no chains that bound him. There was no hand, and he was not in Angband. Shadows were simply shadows.

The fire was what kept him sane.

But no matter how fairly the flames trembled, Maedhros found his gaze not fixated on them but rather upon the sleeping figure upon his bed; the _true_ light that banished the darkness.

Something was not right.

Unblemished skin had lost its shimmer and had turned into a sickly pale shade, so transparent that the dark bruises that adorned each wrist appeared more black than blue. At times, the _peredhel_ would flinch violently in his sleep; drawing in haggard breaths as if he struggled to breathe. 

Maedhros watched him in fraught silence, unsure of what to do. Outside, he could still hear the distressed calls of guards and servants; sharing fruitless orders with one other. The people were in great panic, for they were unable to locate their beloved king. 

The lord of Himring leaned back in his seat, amused. Perhaps it was cruel of him, keeping the king away, but what else was there to do? Dare say, if he _would_ approach them, informing them of their precious ruler’s whereabouts, it would surely go amiss.

Perhaps they would accuse him of abduction, and throw him down to the dungeons to rot without a fair trial; as they had so justly done before.

Sighing, Maedhros crossed his arms. Even in the low light, he could easily detect the blood that stained the king’s rich robes; and could not help but wonder what had happened. _Something_ had gone awry.

It had all happened so quickly. One moment, Maedhros had been busy writing a letter to Himring, informing his councillors and commanders of his status within the Sindarin kingdom. Then, the door to his room had swung open, revealing a disheveled Celegorm with a limp elf in his arms.

His brother had said no word. He had only shared a brief eye contact and a curt nod before before gently lowering Dior upon his lord’s bed; leaving as quickly as he had come.

The sight had been startling, but the lord of Himring had allowed all his questions to be remained unsaid. Somehow, Maedhros knew that the king’s frail state was not his brother’s doing. 

Maedhros sighed, rubbing his temples. The jewel had drained the peredhel once, he had seen it unfold with his own eyes, but what now? _What happened_? 

Suddenly, the empty stillness was shaken by a startled gasp. Upon the bed, Dior struggled for breath, wheezing and twitching where he lay helpless. His chest heaved as he arched his back, and for a faint moment Maedhros feared he would cease to breathe. Then, the _peredhel_ fell still again, and silence returned.

Perhaps he ought to call for healers—

_No_. _Let them worry. _Maedhros would not approach them. Something told him that _they_ were the ones responsible for their king’s condition. 

Frowning, he carefully studied the sleeping figure with great intensity. It _was – _without doubt – Dior. The face was too beautiful to belong to anybody else. It was the faint reflection of Lúthien’s grace; the very same king who had crumbled in front of Maedhros the night before.

But where there should have been locks of deepest midnight, more than half of the dark tresses had been drained to pale silver. 

It was as if someone had taken a handful of the king’s hair and dipped it in starlight. Glorious, it toppled over the bed and towards the floor into a pool of ink that intertwined with molten pearls. 

Slowly, the lord of Himring arose from his seat, feeling as if though the whole world had gone still. Hesitantly, he approached the sleeping silhouette, unsure of what to expect.

A small part of him hoped that the king would wake up from the aching of his slumber, but the other prayed that he would not move. Inhaling slowly, Maedhros raised his left hand, expecting to drown it in the splendid waves of midnight and starlight. 

_He could already feel the softness of each strand of hair; the texture of it between his fingers_...

Then, a sharp knock pierced the silence of the room, and startled Maedhros swiftly pulled his hand back. Turning his head, he opened his mouth to speak, but the door swung open before he was able to find his voice. Inside stepped Maglor. 

There was no formal greeting– there was no need for one. Maedhros would never expect anything from Maglor except from loyalty; and Maglor did not think he had any other duties aside from that. 

The two of them shared a moment of heated silence, both daring the other to look away first.

Then, the minstrel’s eyes strayed towards the king, and the fire within his irises dwindled. Quietly, he closed the door behind himself. 

Silence reigned for a strained minute, both brothers refusing to speak.

“I thought you had already left,” Maedhros then said as he stiffly walked towards the fireplace, hoping that it would distract Maglor from the unusual guest. 

”I was about to... but we were delayed,” Maglor answered, voice gentle. With heavy steps he approached the lord of Himring, but his gaze never left the king. Everything, from the way he moved to the way he would speak, indicated that Maglor was feigning innocence.

Casually, he ran an index finger over the arm of a chair, refusing to meet Maedhros’ eyes. “We were not permitted to leave the kingdom. There was, _supposedly_, an incidence...” 

Maedhros found himself smiling, though not kindly. Stiffly, he turned to properly face Maglor.

“Why are you here?” 

His brother rolled his eyes, as if the answer was obvious. “At first, I simply wanted to leave this awful place and never turn back. Then, I realised, that perhaps I ought to say goodbye to my _dearest_ older brother before my departure...” He smiled sweetly, although Maedhros was wise enough to know it was venomous.

The lord of Himring almost laughed. _Almost_. Instead, he refrained to biting his tongue, and addressed his brother coolly. “Are we done then?” 

Maglor _did_ laugh. It sounded melodic, equally as tuneful as ringing bells. Not the loud bells from the towers in Tirion, but bells of bittersweet doom.

“Hasty to be rid of me, are you now?” He asked amusedly, shifting so that he sat upon the chair’s arm. In the low firelight, his smirk was devious. Silently, his gaze strayed towards the sleeping figure that was Dior. “Did I interrupt something?”

Maedhros’ eyes turned cold. 

“No.”

”Really?” Maglor asked, obviously not convinced. “What? The king suddenly goes missing for _hours_ and the entire kingdom turns into a pack of bloodhounds. They go on a mad hunt, sniffing after his scent and trail, and yet in spite of their struggles are unable to find him... Then, I find him in _your_ room upon _your_ bed.” 

”You know nothing of what you speak.”

Maglor smiled coyly, raising a fine brow. “Is that so?”

The lord of Himring gritted his teeth._ He’s toying with me_. That was more of fact than a speculation. It was all a game in his brother’s eyes. Maglor could play any device in the world, but the greatest instrument he had ever come to master was undoubtedly the minds of both elves and men.

He could fiddle with them until they would buckle or break; unravel secrets with only the gentle tune of his voice. It was more of a weapon than it was a skill. 

Then, the minstrel laughed gently. An unwelcoming contrast to the chill that lingered dreadfully in the atmosphere.

“Don’t be so defensive, Maitimo.” His smile widened. “I am not judging you. What you do in your free-time is none of my business... Although, it _would_ explain your sudden willingness for an alliance—“

Startlingly, within the width of a second, Maedhros’ left hand was gripped around his brother’s forearm. The grasp was tight, painful, so strong that his nails dug into the alabaster skin. Maglor did not flinch. He did not even bat an eyelid. 

“Must you always be so vile?” Maedhros hissed through gritted teeth.

Maglor raised an elegant brow. “I am not the one having a tryst with a married man.”

The lord of Himring let go of him, scowling. “You know, I never thought of you as a fool. Perhaps I ought to reconsider my judgement...” 

For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of splintering wood, and occasionally the distant and echoes of hitching breaths.

Maedhros sighed. How had it come to this? When had reality turned into a spiralling nightmare? When had the joys of life turned to woes? Valinor did not seem so long ago, and yet it was faint and out of reach. Never would they return to the white shores again.

Then, Maglor spoke. This time there was no malice, no game. Only sincerity: 

“I came to tell you that I will be departing with the Silmaril.” Maedhros startled at those news, although he did not show it. “I do not trust this kingdom. I do not trust their king.” 

Maedhros, unable to argue with that logic, did not object. Instead, he addressed his brother coldly.

“Guard it with your life.” 

Maglor nodded, and without a word turned towards the exit. However, before his hand could touch the handle, he hesitated; as if something was pulling him back. Maedhros watched silently as his brother spun around, and with hasty steps approached him again. 

For a faint moment, Maedhros was unsure of Maglor’s motives. They had never been close, even during the bloom of their youth. They were far too different – far too complex – to have even been able to understand each another; nonetheless enjoy each other’s company.

Maedhros supposed that years spent in foreign lands had perhaps changed them. 

In the firelight, the minstrel raised his right hand and gently touched the side of his lord’s face. His hand was soft, with even a hint of affection. There was no hidden malice.

Maglor had never enjoyed fond, displays of brotherly love, and ever since Angband, Maedhros had learned to resent it. Yet there they stood, one brother gently caressing the face of the other; and him allowing it to happen.

They shared a moment of silence. 

”Stay alert,” Maglor then said, averting his gaze towards the eight pointed star upon Maedhros’ chest. “Do not let your guard down.” 

“You know I won’t,” Maedhros whispered. _How can I_?

Nodding, seemingly pleased with the answer, Maglor turned around and approached the exit a second time, but with slow and slightly hesitant steps. This time, he did grab the handle. 

Before he left, however, there was a pause. In the heat of the tension, he cast one last empty glance at Dior. The peredhel’s chest still heaved as he struggled for breath, and at times he would even flinch, wheezing through chapped lips. 

“Such an interesting creature...” Maglor whispered, to no one but himself. His eyes were unreadable as he allowed his words to hang in the air: “One cannot help but wonder how he came to be...” 

Maedhros said nothing, even as his brother turned to offer him one last regard. With a calm fire in his eyes, Maglor smiled a final time: 

“He is _not_ weak, Maitimo.” The whisper rung as loud as thunder. “Beware.”

Then, he was gone, abandoning Maedhros in the aching silence of a foreign kingdom.

• • •

  
  


  
  
In his dreams, he saw a white fire.   
  
Not a fickle flame, too weak to banish a stray shadow, but a wild glow that blazed and burned. So hot, that even in the distance he could feel its heat grazing over his skin. 

It was the only source of light within reach, the only thing that could banish the void. For in the distance, there blew a cold and malicious wind. 

Behind him, darkness slithered alike a serpent, devouring everything that stood in its path. Hungry, it creeped upon him from left and right, exchanging whispers and taunts as if it hoped to turn him mad. 

There was a voice amidst the hissing, dark and twisted:

_Alone. Alone. You are all alone_.

Trembling, Dior stumbled forward, staggering towards the fire in vain hope that it would scare the darkness away. What would be left if the light was lost?

He felt young. He _was_ young. Perchance, there was still a child within him, weeping in abandonment. What was a child without its mother? Amidst hemlocks of white he recalled how she used to sing and dance. How her pearly feet had barely touched the earth...

_She’s gone_. A hollow voice laughed._ Just like your father. Just like your grandfather_. _Dead and gone – dead and gone_.

_Lost_. 

When he was younger, he had never once wondered about the gift of Men, nor had he pondered upon the immortality of Elves. To him, there had only been the simplicity that was mother and father; and the small cabin that he once called home. Even now, he was unsure to which path he belonged to... 

What path would he take, given the choice? 

His father used to tell him stories of olden days, stories of his own father and the men before him. The House of Bëor had been a proud house, and above all things loyal. But just like everybody else, they too were lost to the world.

Was the path of Men such an ill fate? Dior could only wonder. No man truly feared death, only the mystery they lay behind it. 

Peering into the abyss, Dior could see faces in the darkness. The faces of family, and yet strangers. There were many of them, all dark haired and most grey eyed; some with irises of green or brown. Only one stood out as ink upon snow, with eyes in the deep hues of sapphires. 

Túrin’s face struck out the most in the gloom. A clear image of how Dior had remembered him, back when he had visited Doriath for the first time as a child. The son of Húrin had spoken to Dior in _Taliska; _the only person within the kingdom who had been able to do so.

He had been young back then. A proud man with a kind smile, but with the shadows of doom trailing menacingly after his every step. 

Dior watched in anguish when the fair face twisted in pain. The sapphire eyes turned frightful and mad, as in the distance a dark sword sang.

_The world was cruel to you_, Dior thought to himself, sadly, as he watched his kinsman succumb to his own demise. He was gone. Just like mother. Just like father. _Dead and gone_.   
  


_Just like you will be, given time_. 

In the darkness a thousand voices screamed. They were all calling out his name.   
  
  
  
  


Jolting awake, Dior gasped for breath. 

Emptiness. For a faint moment, there was nothing but stillness and silence. It was as if he had dived down into cold waters, but there were no waves that could toss him or turn. He found it difficult to move, and with all the strength that he could muster managed to open his eyes.

Only then did he feel the pain.

Blinding, sharp _pain_. 

Startled, Dior toppled over to his side, clutching onto his torso in vain hope of relieving the flaring spasm that ran throughout his body. He was shaking, he realised. It was cold, and his head was screaming. 

Pressing the side of his face against the mattress he pinched his eyes shut, grinding his teeth together in fruitless effort to numb the pain. 

All he wanted to do was melt away. To entirely disappear and abandon the burdens of the world. What use was he to it, anyways? The heir of a dead king? The last remnant of a fallen house? A _puppet_ upon strings? Trying to even out his breath, he tried to concentrate. 

_Breathe, just breathe_...

His mind wandered to Nimloth. Where was she? She would know what to do – she always knew what to do. She could help, she could— 

No. 

She would not be able to help him. No one could.

It had taken him an awful long time to realise that. What could Nimloth do other than offer him brief and temporary comforts? She could not understand the pain of losing a House he was never truly apart of. To lose a family he had never met. Dior had barely known Túrin, and yet the man’s death had felt like a great loss. 

He was _alone_. 

Nimloth could empathise, but she could never come to understand. There is a difference. 

Wrapping his arms around himself, he sunk further into the mattress, releasing a quivering breath of frustration. It felt awful being alone. 

During his childhood, he had dreamed of siblings. There were times when he used to beg his parents for playmates; other children to keep him company during the stretching hours of the days. His mother had merely laughed at the bold request, and his father simply ruffled his hair with a warm smile. No siblings had ever come, and Dior had spent his alone.

Only now did he understand why. 

Why would they ever want to create something like _him_ a second time? 

A threshold race, neither man nor elf. Such heavy to burdens for a soul to carry, both a lineage and weighted titles. A mind no one could come to fathom. Abandoned, with no one to guide him. 

_Alone_. 

The tears he had been forcing back began to spill, and frustrated he let out a muffled growl of defeat. Why did he always have to cry? Ever since his parents’ deaths, the proud and strong image that had taken him years to forge for himself had done nothing but crumble. 

Exhaling sharply, he tried to calm himself; his fingers shaking at the effort. The sheets were stained with his tears, and in the room there was nothing but the sound of odd, uneven breaths and the distant cracking of fire. 

Then, suddenly, he felt a hand clasp around his shoulder.

Startled, Dior froze beneath the touch. The grip tugged him back to reality, and suddenly he became very much _aware_. He was awake. He was no longer dreaming. The pain slowly dwindled, only for it to turn into fear. 

Memories flooded in violently, toppling over one another before turning into massive waves that he found difficult to keep up with.

The scent of untamed woodlands and fur engulfed his senses. He recalled a set of sharp, silver eyes along with the feeling of strong arms wrapped around him. Heat pooled into his cheeks at the thought of it; as he remembered how he had leaned against the chest, desperately seeking for warmth...

_Where am I_? 

Slowly, a little hesitant, Dior released the grip he had around his torso and numbly turned his head to his side, scanning the surroundings. The room was mostly dark, but the faint hues of firelight bathed it in warm colours. 

Wherever he was, he was still within the kingdom. More specifically, the _palace_. The furniture was far too familiar in structure, far too _Sindarin, _for him to be anywhere else. But he was not located in his own room, that much was obvious. 

Had they found him then? Had Celegorm surrendered him to the guards? There seemed to be a strange tension in the air, but amidst it all there was a lingering peace. He felt oddly content, as if no evil or harm would come to him. No one would bother him.

He felt safe. 

Blinking slowly, Dior at last managed to fully adjust into reality. He was laying upon a soft mattress- no, a _bed, _and there was a hand upon his shoulder. The fingers were hard and calloused, but in spite of the brute strength the touch was gentle.

In a different time, it might have been his father gently shaking him awake. Soft, grey-green eyes would come and greet him, accompanied by a warm smile and hearty voice. 

But his father was lost to the world, and there was _still_ a hand upon his shoulder. 

Slowly, unsure of what to expect, Dior averted his gaze towards the towering figure that loomed over him; only for his heart to drop when he recognised the cold and hard face. 

In the firelight Maedhros’ scars burned brightly, but his eyes glowed alike a white fire. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a much longer time to publish this chapter than I anticipated. It was originally meant to be two chapters, but I found them to be too short and decided to merge them together. I do not really like the second half of it, but it has to do. Next chapter should be more interesting.
> 
> I wanted to write a scene between the two brothers before Maglor would leave, just so you would get a good idea of what my version of Maglor is like. (Also): I love the disaster that is Túrin, so I had to include him, even though it was just a glimpse. I have always liked that idea that he at least met Dior once.  
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter<3
> 
> Translation(s):  
Taliska: the Edain language spoken by the House of Hador and Bëor  
Peredhel: half-elf


	14. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dior experiences change*

There should have been fear.

He had heard dark tales, there was not a soul in Doriath that had not. A tale of seven brothers who had spilled blood on holy havens, who had committed an unthinkable sin and swore a horrid oath of vengeance. Of seven brothers, accursed and doomed, bound by chains of their own making. 

Staring up at Maedhros, Dior was unsure of _what_ exactly he was feeling. One thing was clear, though: It was not fear. 

In the tales, Dior had envisioned feral monsters. Cold-blooded princes with hearts of stone, kept only alive by the snares of madness. Looking at Maedhros, he found that he was not staring into the eyes of a monster. There was no monster. Just an elf. 

Broken? Yes. Marred? Undoubtedly. A twisted mind, not yet fully healed? Perhaps. It made no difference. Scars are not what makes a person. 

A moment of empty silence passed between them, where they simply stared into each other’s eyes. 

Then, Dior’s stomach twisted, and leaning over he released a violent cough. His lungs burned at the force of it, as if they had been set afire. 

Wheezing, Dior straightened himself as he arose to sit. Maedhros was gazing at him silently, an unreadable expression on his white face. It looked paler in the firelight; more skeletal. 

Two weeks. Nearly a fortnight had passed, and Dior was yet to unravel the mystery that was Maedhros Fëanorion. 

No matter how much the king struggled to come and understand the eldest of the sons of Fëanor, he seemed to be unable to. Maedhros was, beneath all his flaws and strength, simply that. A _mystery_. 

Pulling his knees towards his chest, Dior struggled to regain his breath, groaning softly. Although the majority of the pain had faded, there was still an odd pounding in his head and he could not help but feel dazed. 

Looking around himself, he struggled to find the memory that answered his worries. 

”What happened?” 

The question had been simple and straight, and yet it was met with a moment of silence. When Dior lifted his gaze to stare at Maedhros, the lord of Himring was frowning, although more in faint confusion rather than judgement. Raising a brow, he said: 

“You tell me.” 

The king paused, pondering on the answer. He remembered running, feeling as if though his legs would give up beneath him, and infinite halls that wound into a maze.

Eyes wide, Dior coughed a second time, struggling to stifle it with his hand. It sounded more wet than dry. Cringing, he managed to wheeze through the stinging pain: “Why am I here? What time is it?” 

Maedhros was silent for a moment. There was a distant look in his eyes, as if he was contemplating on answering; or perhaps choosing the rights words.

_One wrong word can butcher a sentence_. 

Then, he crossed his arms before his chest, and took a seat upon an armchair some distance away. Staring evenly at Dior, he finally answered:

“My brother brought you to me. You were unwell.” There was a pause. “That was a day and a half ago. It is afternoon.” 

A wave of shock washed over Dior, and startled he gripped the sheets around him. “_What_?” For a faint moment he struggled for breath, then for words. “Where – why – _how_?...”

What _happened_? In his mind, he remembered nothing but pain and the cold. What was meant to be a calm morning had spiralled into a mess. He had been eating breakfast— 

Flashes of images suddenly struck in his mind. In the width of a second he saw before himself shattered porcelain and deep crimson upon white, silken robes.

Wide eyes staring back at him. _Terrified_. 

”You don’t remember...” Startled, Dior whipped his head towards Maedhros. The Fëanorion was not staring at him but rather at the ground, deep in concentration.

_What is he thinking? _The peredhel thought to himself, unable to suppress his worries.

A long moment passed before he met Dior’s gaze. “You don’t remember at all what happened?”

“No,” he whispered meekly, voice almost lost to the cackling of fire. There were only shattered shards of memories, not a full reflection. No matter how hard Dior tried to concentrates, he could not bring himself to conjure up a clear image. 

He felt frustrated, stressed and _confused_. Above all else he felt lost. 

Hesitant fingers began to stray towards delicate wrists. It was a natural motion, one he had repeated numerous of times before. However, the pinching never came.

He hesitated.

Maedhros was not looking at him, but the lord’s words still stung the fresh wounds that had not yet healed. Slowly, the king lowered them back to his sides, feeling sheepish. 

”The memories will come back...” He added miserably, unsure whether he _wanted_ them to. “They will come back, to haunt me if anything else...” 

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of burning wood. The stillness was comfortable, for there was no tension lingering amongst them. Only calmness. 

Then, a loud shout pierced the air, and alarmed Dior turned to stare at the door. Outside, he could hear the faint echoes of marching feet. Elves, both guards and servants, were exchanging commands along with distressed calls. 

”They’re looking for you,” Maedhros said grimly, only when the footsteps grew faint. There was a strange tightness to his voice, although Dior was not sure how to interpret it. “You ought to leave. They’re growing restless.” 

Undoubtedly, that would be the wisest thing to do. It was the king’s duty to ensure that the people were faring well, and his absence had surely startled many of them. 

However, he found that he did not _want_ to leave. Not yet. Not out of any driven pettiness, but simply because he felt that he did not have the strength to face them. Or perhaps it was the _world_ he had not the strength to face...

_To the hell with wisdom_. 

Averting his gaze to the palms of his hands, Dior felt heat pooling into his cheeks before he managed to speak. “Actually...” he hesitated. What? What was he meant to say? He felt like a child, begging his parents for another bed-time story or sweets.

He should have been afraid, not confident. But there was no fear. 

It was pathetic, but Dior did not _care_. Maedhros was already looking at him, so there was nothing to do but continue. “Could I stay here? Only for a little while.”

A chilling moment of silence passed between them, and Dior feared that he had been too straightforward; that he had said the wrong thing. The Fëanorion’s eyes were ablaze, but not with ferocious malice. It was a strange calmness, although intimating.

Then, surprising even Dior, Maedhros simply shrugged. Standing up, he approached the fireplace with heavy steps. “Your kingdom. Your decision.” 

Dior would be lying were he to say he was not relieved. An odd weight lifted from his chest at the answer. Shifting upon the bed, he leaned forward so that his chin rested upon his knees, and whilst studying Maedhros said: 

“Do _you_ know anything of what happened?”

He was not sure where the sudden boldness had come for him to speak so abruptly, but he felt courageous. The lord of Himring world not judge him for his questions or lack of manners. There were no rules that needed to be followed. 

Maedhros would not hurt him, this he knew. 

“I know that something did not go well,” the lord of Himring said after a tense moment of silence, poking at the fire with a prod so that it would not burn out. “My brother brought you to me. Then I received the news that you had gone missing. You looked ill, so I decide to allow you to rest and wait for you to wake up rather than return you to your family...” 

Dior listened intently, watching as Maedhros returned to sit again, this time toying with small a pendant he had between his fingers. It was not the signature, eight-pointed star of his own house but a different emblem. The star of Fingolfin. 

It did not take Dior long to realise to whom it used to belong to. Smiling sadly, he hugged his legs tighter. 

”Thank you.” 

Maedhros looked up from the pendant, brows furrowed in evident confusion. Dior flushed, although he tried not to. “For allowing me to sleep... and upon your bed.” Then, a thought dawned upon him, and his eyes widened in worry. “_Oh, _youdid not sleep in that chair, did you? Your back must hurt! You should have woken me up—“

”No,” Maedhros said rather harshly, startling Dior. For a faint second, he feared he had angered the old lord,but in spite of the hard tone Maedhros’ eyes were soft. “_No_. You needed rest...”

The peredhel smiled. Outside in the distance, he could still hear guards exchanging shouts and commands. He chose to ignore them.   
  


_A day and a half_. He had been asleep for an entire day and a half. Yet it had felt no more than perhaps an hour or two.

He thought of Nimloth, and felt guilt gnaw at his heart at the thought of her worrying over his absence. His mind wandered to the boys, how long it would have taken them to realise something was not right; whether they had even noticed at all. 

Finally, his mind settled into the memory of Elwing. A wee thing- still trapped in her nursery, no doubt, unaware of the anarchy that ensued outside of it. 

Sighing, the king shook his head. He loved them, only an mad man would have no affection whatsoever for one’s spouse and children, but there was a strange feeling that held him back from reaching out to Nimloth with his mind. 

_They can wait_... 

Biting upon his bottom lip, Dior leaned back against the heaps of cushions, enjoying the content silence. Maedhros was still sitting upon the armchair, eyes deeply focused on the pendant, rubbing his thumb over the star with stiff concentration. 

Dior bit down harder, forcing back a smile for his own triumph. It was a nice sight, one that he never thought he would be presented with. Being able to study the Fëanorion up close, an elf that was not only old and ancient but a _legend_. 

He wondered how many of the tales were true. Whether any of them were true at all, or whether the stories had simply been butchered with time...

Twitching his toes, Dior’s gaze absently strayed down towards the lord’s hand. It was hard and calloused: Years of sword-fighting had fashioned it into the hand of not a perfumed elite but a warrior.

Although the grip he had upon the pendant was light and gentle, there was no misunderstanding the true strength the hand held. As Maedhros fiddled with the small shape, his fingers were both nimble and quick.

Had he truly learned to wield a sword better with his left than he had ever managed with his right? Clenching his own left fist, Dior could not help but hesitate at the thought of it. 

During the golden days, back to the years of his youth, Dior had learned the basics of sword fighting from his father Beren. One had to rely on technique as much as strength, and precise calculation. The peredhel was shameful to admit he had never mastered the true arts of it, and wondered whether he could ever come to defend himself when face to face with a dark foe. 

He had never even seen an orc before. 

Dior’s gaze shifted upwards, towards the strong forearm and the fine scars that adorned it.

Maedhros could defend himself with his eyes closed.

The lord of Himring crossed his legs, shifting slightly in his seat. Subconsciously, Dior’s gaze darted towards his thighs, and upwards. He could not help but wonder–

Heat pooled into his cheeks at the sudden bold thought. _What is the matter with you_? He thought to himself, quickly averting his gaze. Maedhros was looking at him, having without doubt felt the staring only moments ago.

Then, after a brief moment of tense silence, he returned to his pendant. 

Sighing softly, Dior ran his hand through his hair, feeling relief wash over him. _Fool_, he thought to himself. _Why would you even dare to think that_? He could already see before himself the disdain upon the royal court’s faces would they ever come to know; he could nearly _feel_ his own grandfather rolling in his grave.

The thought of it was amusing, and he almost laughed. He was sat in a room with a Fëanorion. In the Sindar’s eyes, there was perhaps no bigger crime in the world that he could commit...

Threading his fingers through his hair, he struggled to untangle the knots. When was the last time since he had brushed it? Shaking the thought away, he pulled the tresses to his side, hoping to manage to braid them—

A gasp escaped his lips, piercing the silence as loud as a scream. Maedhros’ eyes snapped up towards him, alarmed by the sudden shift in the atmosphere. 

His _hair__. _Dior’s fingers trembled as he held it in his hands. It was–

Silver. 

”_What-“_ His voice trembled as he spoke. Fisting a handful of his fair locks he studied it closely, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. 

Intertwined with the silver were uneven strands of familiar midnight, coiling around them as ink upon snow. 

Struggling for breath, Dior’s grip tightened. Memories began to unwind, unclear and haste.  
Blood upon pretty silk robes and shattered shards of porcelain. He saw children’s feet upon cold woodland floors; a kingdom crumbling and ashes that once made trees flutter away... 

He could not breathe, for saltwater filled his lungs. He was drowning. 

Someone grasped his shoulder, but Dior had not the consciousness to realise it. 

A true king should not have felt so uneasy, hair was simply _hair_. There was no saying it was a permanent colour— a permanent _change_—

“Dior.” 

His breath hitched in his throat as he struggled for air. Questions spiralled in his mind, crude and merciless. There had been an accident – something _bad_ had happened. He had glimpsed into the future; watched helplessly at a kingdom fall. There had been a woman — the jewel has grabbed her by the throat and...

_Why can’t I breathe_? 

“Dior.” Suddenly, the hand left his shoulder and grabbed him roughly by the chin. Jerking Dior’s head upwards, the peredhel was forced to meet the Fëanorion’s gaze. The fire in Maedhros’ eyes were ablaze. “_Stop_.” 

Silence fell at the command, just as the taste of iron filled his mouth.

Wide eyed, Dior sat frozen, staring into the silver eyes that threatened to combust him. Then, the flames dwindled, and a strange softness replaced it. 

Gently, Maedhros ran a thumb over Dior’s lips, wiping the blood that oozed from his nose. Softly, the lord added: “You’re only making it worse.” 

He was not mistaken. The little remainder of midnight tresses that Dior had been fruitlessly holding onto had turned silver; so that there only a few strands of ebony left. Forcing out a quivering breath, Dior released his grip in defeat.

“What happened to me...” he whispered into the empty air. Staring into a Maedhros’ eyes, he struggled to hold back the tears. “What’s _wrong_ with me?”

Maedhros said nothing.

Dior exhaled in frustration, fisting the sheets beside him. “_Something_ is wrong with me.” His voice trembled. 

The lord of Himring stared at him silently, allowing the chill of late spring to seep into their bones. The silence was infuriating; only adding to the festering tension that hovered in the air. 

At last, Maedhros spoke: 

“There is nothing wrong with you.” 

Dior, surprising evening himself, managed a dry laugh: “No, there is _something_ obviously wrong with me...” He met Maedhros’ gaze with a sharp dare in his eyes. “Would you call me _normal_, my lord?” 

A pause, then the furrowing of brows, before at last came a sigh. Wandering around the room for a short moment, Maedhros at last took a seat upon the very edge of the bed, staring at Dior with a rare softness in his eyes. 

”I cannot say that I would,” the lord of Himring at last answered.

It had not been a cruel statement - not intentionally so, at the very least, but simply the truth. Dior was _not_ normal, only a fool would claim so.

He was not quite sure what he was. 

A sigh cleared the silence, and to his surprise Maedhros cupped his chin a second time, although the movement had been hesitant:

“Look.” He said softly, motioning for Dior to meet his eyes. “No one can expect you to be..._ standard_.” His words were slow, carefully spoken, as if he feared to say the wrong thing. “I see how they look at you. How much they expect from you. There is... _love_, although you might doubt it, but also expectations. Expectations you may not be able to meet.”

He hesitated. The fire in the old lord’s eyes flickered as he studied the peredhel’s face. “Expectations you _should not_ have to meet. They aspire to find Lúthien in you. To find Thingol. They anticipate for it _so_ much, that they fail to search for Dior.” 

For a moment, it seemed as if Maedhros wished to say something more. As if the words were stuck in his throat, and a single cough would unleash it all within the matters of seconds. But silence stretched further on, and he nothing more came. 

Their faces were so close that Dior could feel Maedhros’ breath upon his lips. It was enticing, in a sinful manner, as if a spark of electricity held them in place.

Then, averting his gaze, the lord of Himring pulled away; dropping the grip he had upon the king’s face. However, he did not return to his seat. 

Time seemed to stand still, where they simply relished in the shifted tension and silence. 

Then, a question struck in Dior’s mind and although wisdom advised him to mind his tongue, curiosity acted quicker than his wits. He spoke before he could bring himself to stop, his voice only a whisper in the air: 

“How did you do it?” 

Maedhros raised a brow, and unable to take his words back Dior mindlessly continued: 

“How did you get through it?” He did not need to clarify for the Fëanorion to understand. “How did you manage to _heal_?” 

Perhaps it was the wrong thing to have asked, especially during such a fragile moment of affection. But the lord of Himring was patient, and he did not seem angry. He did not even appear displeased. Instead, there was a softness in his gaze, as if he admired the youth before him. 

Dior blinked up at him, waiting. 

Maedhros stared at him for a very long time before a smile managed to stray to his scarred face. Not a cold smile, nor one forged out of cruelty. It was simply a _smile_, genuine and soft. However, when he spoke his voice was meek and almost lost to the world: 

“I never did.”

In the distance, the fire danced. It burned until afternoon turned to evening, and evening became the night.   
  


  
  


• • •  
  


  
  


When Dior woke up hours later, Maedhros was gone. The fire had withered away, and the room was bathed in near complete darkness. Beside him there was a small parchment, neatly folded twice. 

Exhaling through his nose, Dior tried to ignore the foul and faint taste of iron upon his tongue and pushed himself up to sit. The doors to the balcony were wide open, but no breeze blew through them. There were no winds in Menegroth.

Still, there was an odd stillness; one that did not belong in the kingdom. It was eerie, equally as haunting as it was mysterious, and brought a deep chill through his bones. 

Then it hit him. There were no Elven choirs singing. 

Blinking into the emptiness, Dior pulled the silk sheets tighter around his body, feeling strangely cold. Why was it so quiet?

When he had first visited Doriath, still fresh and young, he had been intrigued by the Elven tunes that never seemed to stop. There had always been a singing in the distance, faint voices both fair and sweet, that matched the atmosphere kingdom. Now, everything seemed different.

The kingdom was changing.

_Fading_, a voice whispered in his mind. No matter how frightening the thought was, Dior could not turn his cheek to the truth. The magic was withering away, just like the trees. It was nearly impossible to ignore. His grandmother had managed to hold it all together during his grandfather’s reign; but Dior’s magic was far too weak to even banish the frost from what was once eternal, spring soil. 

_It’s all my fault_... 

Struggling to ignore the tense silence he was not used to, Dior averted his attention to the parchment beside him. 

Maedhros had surely left it next to him for a reason. Who else was it meant for? Unsure of what to expect, he gently took the letter into his hands and carefully unfolded it, noting how his fingers shook. 

The lord’s handwriting was beautiful, a perfect form of his own father’s craft. Each line was wrought delicately with fine precision. There was not a smudge in sight; nor a letter in disarray. However, no matter how fair the writing was, Dior was unable to interpret its meaning. 

His cheeks flushed as shame crept over him. What kind of king was he?– A king who could not read.

Gently folding the parchment to its original shape, he placed it upon the nightstand beside him, unsure of what to do next. He was _alone_, and he had no desire to leave the safe haven that was the room. 

He still had not the strength to face his family. 

Sighing softly, Dior pulled his legs over the edge of the bed, and allowed his bare feet to the touch the cold floor. A chill struck through him at the freezing contact, and he shivered beneath it.

Had it always been so cold?

_No_. Surely not. The frost was just another flaw that had struck the kingdom after his grandmother’s departure. Clutching the blanket tighter around his frame, Dior managed to stand upon shaking feet. 

Dizziness. There was a slight lack of balance; a strange tension in his head; but he managed to stand without falling. Looking around, curiosity at last got the best of him and feeling his heart leap in his chest he began to inspect his surroundings with excitement. 

There was a desk propped closest to the bed. The quill and glass ink were perfectly aligned, including the heaps of parchment that had been neatly tucked by the very corner of the desk. It was as if Maedhros had not touched a single thing in the room; aside from the hearth. When Dior paid closer attention to it, he saw the the charcoal was still glowing with fine embers. 

The lord of Himring had not left long ago. 

Finding that nothing in the room was catching his full interest, Dior considered stepping out onto the balcony. However, common wit stopped him from straying after temptation.

The kingdom was in panic. Undoubtedly, there were guards and archers assigned at every corner of the kingdom; prepared to strike or blow a horn at any sudden movement. If Dior knew any better, the palace was most likely on a lockdown. 

The peredhel frowned. How had they not found him yet? The palace was big, yes, but not large enough for it to take _two days_ to scavenge every room. Menegroth was a _cave_, with no way in or out without the awareness of guards. 

How—

“Have you scoured the east-wing?” 

His ears perked at the sound of a familiar voice in the distance. _Celeborn_.   
  
“Yes. _Twice_. There was no luck both times.” _Galathil_. Carefully, Dior made his way towards the balcony, daring a glimpse down to the royal gardens. 

Below in the courtyard two figures paced nervously by a glowing pool, both wrought with immense worry. Celeborn appeared more tense than his brother: 

“I do not understand – where could he have gone?” He asked, the question more directed to himself than the other. “There are no reports of him having passed through the gates, which means he must still be here...” 

“We have searched everywhere.” Galathil sounded more weary, but there was still the lingering hint of worry in his voice. “We have guards posted by every corner of this kingdom. There is no sight of him.” 

In the reflection of the water, Dior could see that Celeborn was pinching the bridge of his nose, as if he was in great pain. 

”Can you not ask Galadriel?” Galathil pressed on desperately. 

”Already have,” Celeborn answered curtly, as if it was obvious. “She does not know – or refuses to tell me, I’m not quite sure but she says she cannot see, I—“ he sighed deeply. “I don’t know...”

There was a silence for a long moment. It allowed Dior to think. Should he surrender himself? His family was deeply worried and it would seem that the kingdom was as well. Was it not cruel of him to keep on hiding?

Was Maedhros perhaps informing the court of his whereabouts right now?

_No_. Maedhros would not do that. Dior bit down on his bottom lip. _Would he_? 

He was shaken out of his thoughts when Celeborn continued, voice hushed: 

”How could we have allowed this to happen _twice_?” 

Dior startled. _Twice_? He did not recall having ever done anything like this before. Listening closely, he tried to grasp onto their conversation that had grown more quiet: 

“Do not jump into conclusions,” Galathil said sharply. “Dior is not lost. He is a king- a _father_. He would not leave.” 

There was a pause. Dior’s felt as if though his heart was in his throat. 

”The prince Daeron always hated this kingdom...”

Eyes wide, the peredhel felt his mouth run dry as a sudden chill settled into the atmosphere. The mere mention of the name had tugged onto sad strings. Dior did not know much about his uncle. People made sure to never speak of the lost prince near the king’s ears.

There was a strange sadness, a different type of guilt and shame, that lingered over his name compared to that of his sister Lúthien. Lúthien had made a _decision_, brave, selfless and in the name of love. Daeron was never meant to become lost to them, as well. 

”Galathil—“

”It’s true.” The younger elf said sharply. “You could see it in his eyes. It was a prison to him. A _cage_. A bird would rather fly...”

Turning away, Dior hastily shut the balcony doors, unable to listen to them any longer. Closing his eyes, he pressed himself against the glass and allowed himself to slidedown to the floor. 

“What is wrong with you?” He whispered to himself. The kingdom was in panic, his cousins were growing anxious, and yet he had the audacity to sit back in hiding while anarchy spread all around. 

They should have found him by now, Dior could not understand how they had not. 

“In the morning,” he tried to convince himself. “I will wait until morning and then I will leave...” 

Opening his eyes, he looked at his surroundings. The room was peaceful. Chaos had not touched it as it had the rest of the kingdom. He could not bring himself to face them. He—

He did not want to leave. 

_It does not matter what you want_. He scolded himself, angry at his own feelings. _A king needs to be selfless_. 

Running a hand through his hair, he frowned at the sight of silvery tresses. 

_What will they think?_ Came a bitter question. Seeing_ me like this_?

Would they even recognise him? 

His father had once told him that one could locate pride in noble deeds and blood. Family was where one would find one’s strengths and honour, and a coward’s sins could affect the lives of his grandchildren. 

But that was the way of Men...

Elves kept their pride in their hair. Through hair one could reflect a person’s wisdom and age. There was no need to seek out pride in noble blood, for parents and ancestors would never fade. They could never become lost to the world.

Dior wiped a tear from his face, having not realised he was crying. Where did his pride and strength lie? His parents were dead. Only now did he notice the strange bitterness that had slowly crept to his heart, and he felt _angry_. 

”Stupid,” he whispered into the emptiness, tightening the grip he had upon his hair and wincing at the tug of it. “It’s _stupid_...” 

Hair was a symbol of fertility. Of health and beauty. Elves would brush and braid it until the texture would resemble the finest silk. They would lace flowers and jewels through each lock, and envy those whose hairs exceeded great length. 

Dior’s hair had been beautiful. Once dark and thick, it fell to the small of his back in dashing waves that reflected the night sky. Nimloth had always loved it.

And it was stupid. It was _stupid_ and ruined. No longer dark and mysterious; no more a reflection of his mother; but a bland silver colour. He hated it — and he hated how much it mattered.

Rising up, Dior marched across the room and towards the vanity table that was pressed against the wall. Hastily, he dug through the cupboards in a maddening fury, unable to keep his fingers from shaking. Tossing away bottles of rich oils and fine perfumes, he scrambled to find the tool of his desire.

It was all stupid. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_... 

Hair was _hair_. Why did it matter? How could one find pride in it? 

His heart stopped beating when he at last found his treasure. Releasing a quivering breath, he slowly raised up a pair of fine scissors, sharp and precise. Drawing it close to his face for inspection, he wondered at the gleam of it. 

Fearful, Dior’s gaze wandered to the mirror, and at the stranger in the reflection. He looked hollow, _tired_, with hair that was both wild and tangled. The only thing he could recognise were his eyes. Two stones of amethyst, blinking through transparent tears. 

With shaking fingers he grabbed a handful of pale tresses, unable to keep his hands steady. There was a tension in the air, one that resembled the frightening chill of winter. For a faint moment, he did nothing but stare in silence, admiring the elf in the mirror that he could not bring to recognise has himself. 

_What happened to you_? 

Biting down hard, Dior exhaled through his nose just as the blades pierced through the soft tresses. 

He struggled to do it correctly, for it was much more difficult than he had anticipated. Agonising seconds passed by slowly; and he had to twist his arm in an odd direction in order to do the cutting properly properly. An entire minute passed before first lock of hair fluttered down to the floor. 

_Like freshly fallen snow_... 

Smiling through the tears, unable to restrain the mad laugh that bubbled in his throat, Dior fisted another handful and continued. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *aka: Dior goes through a mental breakdown.
> 
> I genuinely considered rewriting this entire chapter, since I had hoped for it to turn out better. However, I hardly have the mentality to do that, so I hope this didn’t come off as rushed or bad<3  
I wanted to make it clear that Dior is going through something(?) and thought that the best way to express it would be through his hair.  
Thank you for all the kudos and comments🤍!! I love you


	15. Pincë Wilin

Sleeping felt like sinking into to the deepest depths of water. The waves pulled at his feet like sirens, dragging him further down into the empty abyss. He knew not when it had snared him but somehow he had drifted off, allowing the gentle coaxing of tides to lull him into mindless slumber.

In the distance he could hear his mother’s faint singing; and when he peered into the mirth and gloom he could see the outlines of her figure dancing. 

There was a sweet light all around them, so when she danced it looked as if she was a single shadow upon a tapestry of white. 

But she was slipping away. 

Suddenly he was running – naked feet barely touching the wilting earth – as fast as two legs could carry; but he was unable to reach her. She would always drift further away, like single nightingale in a lone forest, and soon her singing turned into a breathless laughter.   
  


“_Naneth_!” He tried to call, but found that he had no voice. It became lost in the void. “_Nana_!”   
  


The dream shifted. 

All around him trees withered and fair flowers crumbled beneath his feet. Dark, twisted roots sprung from the earth; coiling around his ankles and snatching him by his wrists so that they bruised. The forest was dying.

No. It was already dead. It died a long time ago: It died with _her_. 

There was nothing left of it but a graveyard. 

Caught in the madness and unable to continue further due to the tugging and the pulling: Dior stopped, allowing himself to be led astray. The darkness that surrounded him was hollow and grim. It was agony and it was defeat. 

In the distance he could hear a scream, but when he turned towards the sound amidst the howling of salty winds he saw nothing but the shadows of a white bird. 

With eyes of molten starlight. 

  
  
  


Dior woke up trembling.

He was upon the floor. The room was still bathed in murk gloom and there was not a wind nor a sound around him. No Elven choirs nor the tunes of birds: _Nothing_. Within mere days the kingdom had turned into a ghost town. 

In his bones he could still feel the whisper of dawn and knew that the morning was still young. He had slept throughout the entire night.

_Tad aur_. Two days. Or was it three? Dior could not tell. Time had passed swiftly, and yet it had lingered as the tiring winter snow during the awakening of spring. It was difficult to tell when one lived in a kingdom without sunlight.

Wincing, he drew his legs closer to his chest and tried to settle his breathing. Although he longed to forget the vision granted to him in his sleep, Dior was wise enough to tell that he could _not_. It had been too puzzling – far too unsettling – to have simply been a dream. 

Visions of foresight did not come to him often, but when they did they were always faint glimpses of horror.   
  


He had tasted salted sea water before – had glimpsed the sight of a white bird – but what did it all mean? 

”What are you trying to tell me?” He whispered to himself, hugging himself tighter. “What is it you want me to see?” 

Feeling tired and yet strangely restless, Dior leaned against the wall for support and arose to stand. All around him were scattered locks of pure silver; resembling torn fabrics of silk. He felt colder without the warm familiarity of dark hair that used to blanket him, and shivered beneath the faint touch of frost. 

Running a hand through short, uneven tresses he managed a sigh that sounded both heavy and burdened. 

_What have I done_? He thought to himself numbly. _What will they think_? 

He had relished in the feeling of cutting and slicing; watched in strange awe as pale strands of hair fluttered to the ground; but now he felt nothing but naked and slightly confused. There was no relief. No joy. 

Then, something dawned upon him. Something strange and not quite aright. It was more a feeling than an emotion, untameable and slightly feral.

There was no hesitation, nothing that pulled him back. As if caught in a trance, Dior staggered towards the door, ignoring the pounding in his head and how his feet ached with every step. 

If he was slipping into madness he could not tell. He felt neither sane nor deranged. He felt nothing. 

Breathless, he swung the doors wide open, prepared to greet either a handful of guards or disheveled servants. Instead, there was nothing but darkness and silence. The halls were completely empty. 

Blinking, the peredhel slowly turned his head from left to right, peering into the darkness as if he was daring for someone to step out. Prepared for something – _anything _that would lunge at him. For someone to strike. 

But seconds passed by achingly slow and nothing happened. There was only silence in the gloom, both a comfort and an itching foreigner. Dior inhaled deeply. _Good_. That was all he had hoped for.

There were voices, wise ones and reasonable ones, advising him to remain still. Begging him to refrain from doing anything unwise. But a rush of wind swept over him, and he felt the sudden urge to _escape_. To break out of an iron cage, a bird set free. Not even wisdom could not chain him.

Dior did the one thing he had always been good at: 

He ran.   
  
  
  


• • •  
  
  


  
When he was a child, still touched with the innocence of youth, he used to seek solace in the trees. The woodlands that had surrounded Tol Galen were different compared to the ancient forests that made Doriath.

The trees in his youth had been more lovely, less broken, and not wrought with the sorrow that would come with time. White flowers would grow by their roots; roots that were still sturdy and strong, and when the sun would shine golden, the leaves would turn into the sweetest shades of green. 

The earth upon the isle had been young. There, Dior used to sing and dance with not a care in the world.   
  
  


Now, he was running through a forest that was as unfamiliar to him as a foreign land. Although Doriath had been a home to him for years now, the trees remained strangers to him.

Withered branches scratched at his face and arms, tearing at soft skin until it bled. At times, he would stumble upon old roots that coiled around his ankles and feared that they would pin him down. They never did and he kept running. 

In the distance a loud horn blew. 

The sound echoed deeply through the forest, so loudly that the earth trembled beneath his bare feet. Dior struggled to ignore it. He simply ran. That was he could do.   
  


It had strangely been easy, escaping that is. As simple as dancing. All he had needed to do was slip through shadows, lean against pillars and trees, and walk toes first instead of heels so that no sound came from his feet. He had managed to pass by dozens of guards unseen, but the real trial had only begun when he at last reached the great gates. 

There, no pillars or trees could shield him. A bridge led to the tall gates and those heavy doors were the only way through the kingdom, in and out. It was the only exit. 

There had fortunately only been two guards posted by the bridge that led to the gates, chatting contently with one another in mild boredom. Far too deep in conversation to notice his presence right away.

Dior, with his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, had approached them with his head held high. 

It had taken them a moment to recognise him, for they had narrowed their eyes upon his sight, wondering who he was and what he intended to do. Only when Dior had crossed the bridge did he hear one of them call after him in distress, alarm having finally caught on.

But already it was too late. The peredhel had opened the gates with all the strength he had been able to muster, and when the fresh scent of spring air washed over him he had _ran. _As if the winds carried his feet.

Only when the first roaring sound of a horn pierce the air did panic seize him.   
  


  
They were still blowing. 

The Sindar were skilful hunters and even more talented trackers. They could read the most faintest of trails and scour the earth alike a pack of bloodhounds. A prey could never escape them, for they were predators clad in silence and shadows. They knew how to hunt. 

But Dior knew how to hide.

Still, it was only a matter of time before they would reach him, and then what? Would he surrender? Would they bind him by his feet and drag him back to the palace?

A chill rolled down his spine when the loud horn pierced through the air again. It was the fifth blow. He had been running for nearly an hour now. 

Hastily, the peredhel made a turn down a narrow pathway. The ground there was slippery and unsteady, and most of the path was hidden by broken roots and scattered leaves. It would be more difficult to track him.

Still, jagged rocks that stuck from the earth pierced the soles of his feet, and he winced with each step he was forced to take. He was getting lightheaded.

It was difficult to breathe when one’s lungs were set afire.

Sharp branches cut at his face, and Dior struggled to dodge them. Softly he sang to the trees, begging them to let him pass through. Some listened and swayed away, but others did not and the peredhel struggled on. 

He thought of Elwing – and the boys – and wondered how they were faring. Whether they were afraid, or lonely like him. It made Dior hesitate in his steps. 

_What am I doing_? He wondered just as the sixth horn blew. The sound was some distance away, but still close. _Too close_. 

Staring up at the sky and the grey clouds that peered through thick branches of spring leaves, he watched as the first droplets of rain fell. The touches were soft, no more gentle than kisses, and brushed down his face.

The rain would cover his tracks. 

”I won’t be gone for long,” he tried to convince himself, turning around to peer back as he took a few steps backwards. The earth was cold beneath his feet. “I only need a day – _one day_ – to clear my mind. I’ll be back...”

Yes, he would be back. There was no doubt of it. He would—

Startled, Dior took another step backwards only to find that there was no ground beneath him. Gasping he tumbled down, stretching his hand forward in search of something that would aid him, but there was nothing to grab onto. Helplessly, he rolled down the mossy hill alike a log.

For a moment, the world spun around him and all he could see were clouds of grey mixed with a dull, green earth. 

There was no sound of rain nor the song of birds.

Then, at last, he reached the bottom shoulder first, and cried out in pain as a loud _crack_ rang in his ears. It was his bad shoulder – the very same shoulder he had fallen upon more than a fortnight ago. Spasm flared throug his arm like lightening, and for a minute he lay completely still.

There was only silence. 

The rain had grown bolder within the minute. It was pouring as if the sky was weeping; wetting the earth so that the dirt around him turned to mud.

The birds were faintly crying in the distance as they struggled to seek shelter. Far away the horn blew a seventh time, more distant than before. He had lost them. For now.   
  


Steadily, and forcing back the low whine in his throat, Dior pushed himself up to his knees while clutching onto the wounded shoulder. 

Wide-eyed he looked around, not surprised to find that he did not recognise his surroundings. 

He had fallen down a hole that lay within a small and compact grove, tucked away from plain sight. Judging by the earth he lay upon, the place had been left untouched for some years now. Perhaps centuries, even. 

Staring up at the sky, Dior winced as the cold rain pounded on his face. Feeling a shiver roll down his spine he struggled onto his feet, and half walked, half crawled towards the base of a large oak tree. 

There he pressed his back against the solid bark and tightly hugged his feet, struggling to regain control of his breathing. 

He could not be outside of the Girdle. He would have felt it. Or would he? Within the span of a year Morgoth’s numbers had grown bolder, and without the magic of Melian it would only be a matter of time before the wall would fall. Dior was barely holding it up with whatever little grace of hers he had in his blood. 

A thousand emotions took ahold of him. Fear, sorrow, _guilt_. It hurled down upon him like a riptide, stripping him away of all the good. He felt _pathetic_. 

Feeling overwhelmed and knowing not how else to express it, Dior buried his face in his arms and cried. It was not a wet sob that reached his lungs but a silent one. If not for the hot tears that soiled the fabric of his sleeves he would not have realised it himself. 

The birds had fallen silent. There was nothing but the sound of pouring rain. 

What kind of a king was he? Abandoning his duties? He felt more like a damsel in distress rather than a proud ruler, and knew well that he was not worthy of the crown. 

He was never meant to be king, and if times had been different he would have surrendered it for someone else to take. Galadhon, Celeborn– _anyone_. Dior did not belong in stone walls where he felt nothing but trapped. 

He belonged wherever the nightingales would sing. He was meant dance upon a green earth with the sun alight in his hair and skin the shade of bronze. 

He understood now why Daeron had fled. Because that is what he had done, was it not?He had _fled_. 

There was a shift in the atmosphere.

It took Dior a moment to detect it, still too deep in his strange grief, but when he did it seemed as if time had frozen still and the pounding of the rain had grown silent. 

A second presence joined him in his solitude.

Unrecognisable and yet strangely familiar. Only when he felt someone stand before him did realisation finally settle, and the fear in his stomach grew. 

They had found him. 

Was he truly surprised? The Sindar who were native to the land had grown up with the forest; they knew it as they would their own two hands. They had studied it for centuries, and Dior had not yet lived four decades. 

The rain had grown violent. He would get sick after this – there was no doubt of it. Although many would argue that he looked every bit Elven, there still remained a few things that could not cover up the Man blood that flowed through his veins. 

Raising his gaze from the burrows of his arms, Dior expected to meet the hard gaze of an Elven archer or guard. 

Instead he found a set of silver eyes staring back at him, neither hard nor cold. A white fire amidst a forest of grey and green.

  
Dior had never seen Maedhros so disheveled, nor had he ever expected to. The lord of Himring was wearing nothing but a poet blouse beneath a scarlet cloak, and his hair was not a loose wave of fire as it usually was but tied back into what appeared to be a hasty knot. 

He was dripping wet and unarmed, with not even the hilt of a sword in sight. The Fëanorion still had the same piercing gaze that he often adorned, but his eyes softened when he took notice of Dior’s tears. Something strange shifted in his gaze.

With the grace of the Eldar he crouched down so that their heights matched. Slowly, as if not to frighten him.

For a moment there was nothing but silence between them amidst the pounding of rain.

Then, Maedhros spoke, and although his voice was deep and hoarse by nature it was quiet; as if he was trying to sound gentle:

“You have caused quite the fright, _pincë wilin_...” 

Dior blinked up at him. 

Had the Fëanorion always looked so harmless? Dior, in spite of his current acts, was not dense. He knew the horrible deeds the Ñoldo had committed; the blood that was impossible to wash from his hands. He knew that Maedhros was very capable of killing him. 

But he knew that the lord of Himring would do no such thing. 

Maedhros would not hurt him.   
  


The peredhel knew not what came to him, nor what encouraged him to act upon emotions alone. All he knew was that it had happened quickly.

One moment he was sitting upon the cold, forest floor and the next he was pressed against Maedhros’ chest. Both arms wrapped around a strong neck and face buried beneath a sturdy chin. 

He did not care that it was _wrong _and reckless, that he above all people should know better. He could not bring himself to. All that he could think about was how he felt _cold_ and Maedhros was _warm_. 

The lord of Himring said no word but merely shifted beneath the king as if to steady himself. Only when Dior felt a strong arm clutch tightly around his waist in return did the peredhel finally react.

It was as if a dam had broken, allowing water to flow freely. Dior _wept. _Not the the quiet tears of faint sadness from before but loud sobs that were both raw and wet.

The rain drowned out the sound of his cries.

It continued to pour on for minutes to come, so hard and violent that every leaf upon the trees stirred, but Dior did not notice. The arms around him were strong. 

He was safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! I cannot believe that more than a month has passed since the last update. Wow. I hope that a rather long chapter can make up for that.  
But I sincerely hope that their relationship isn’t coming off as rushed or hurried. I can only hope for this to go smoothly  
Hope you all have been having it great! Stay safe<3
> 
> Translations:  
pincë: little  
wilin: bird 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not sure if I have done the translations correctly. Do not take me as fluent(hehe)


	16. Nightly Longings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ this chapter kind of acts as a filler ]

Every spring, his mother used to weave him crowns of fresh blooms.

She would place it upon his brow, twine each delicate thread through midnight hair and smile down at him with the kindest eyes. Each time she would finish her work with a peck on his forehead and they would dance until late evening, when the fresh rains would weep over the newborn earth.

Dior dreaded to have the tradition forgotten, so every spring since his reign as king he would craft crowns of flowers. It was the only thing he _could_ do, due to the fact that he was not permitted to leave the confines of his room. 

Well, that was only partly true. As king, they could not _forbid_ him from exiting his chambers, but they had quite harshly advised him to stay. Dior had not the strength to argue, nonetheless dare another escape.   
  


So for the past three days he had done nothing but weave crowns of floral; in whatever hues his servants could struggle to find. He had already made one for himself, two pairs for each son, Elwing and—

Dior cast a glance at the light crown by his nightstand. Pearly white, as freshly fallen snow. _Niphredil_. The flower that first bloomed upon his mother’s birth. 

The pale shade would look good with red.   
  


His own crown – the one he had woven himself, that is, and not the heavy jewelled chaplet worn by a king – was a wreath interlaced by pale bluebells. It had been his mother’s favourite colour; the same flowers she had loved to entwine through his dark hair. 

Dior frowned, feeling his heart tug as he brushed a strand of silver behind his ear. He could only hope it would grow in the deep shade of ebony again.   
  


As he struggled to thread the florets together with shaking fingers, for although some time had passed to allow him to heal he was still quite unsteady, there was a soft knock at the door. He did not look up from his work – did not need to – for before he could even muster an answer it opened. 

Nimloth quietly entered the room. She had a weak smile on her face, her hair appeared as if it had been hastily brushed and the hem of her gown was wrinkled.

She looked tired. 

”May I come in?” 

Dior cast a quick glance at her before returning to his work, glad that he had something to distract himself with. “You already have.” 

He did not see the smile falter from her face, but he _felt_ it. Tacitly, she closed the door. 

The silence that followed was suffocating, as if someone had pulled a string of tension. He fiddled with his work, struggling to ignore the tight atmosphere.

There was no reason for him to be angry with her, and perhaps he was merely angry with himself. It was _Nimloth_. Not a haughty councillor or displeased kinsman, but his wife: The one person he had been able to seek after whenever he had grown anxious or weary with grief. 

Yet the silence stretched on and the the tension with it.   
  
He heard her clear her throat.

“How are you feeling?” 

”Tired.” He answered honestly. It was a mild term. He felt _exhausted_. It was as if there was a constant needle; an unnerving thorn pricking at his soul. It would not leave him be, no matter what. 

Soft footsteps made him hesitate in his work. He listened intently as she approached closer and went rigid when he felt the mattress sink beside him.

A calloused yet soft hand was placed upon his own and gently she squeezed it as if to reassure him. Just like she had always done before. 

”Talk to me.” Nimloth whispered. She sounded hopeful; _desperate_, even. 

Dior still refused to meet her gaze. “What do you want me say?” He asked. He had not meant to sound so harsh- and yet the words spilled out like the brittle bite of winter. Dead. _Cold_. 

”I want an explanation, Dior.” She said, trying to meet his gaze, although alike a child he turned away. Her voice had grown tight with desperation. “Where were you? Why were you avoiding us? Why did you try and leave?” 

Her voice faltered at the very end and Dior looked up. At last, their eyes met, and for a moment time stood still. He feared for a second that she would see through him; that she would devour his every thought and strip him bare and naked. She did not. 

Yet he had no answer to give her – not an answer she would approve of, that is. He could not tell her that he had needed an escape, for then he would have to explain to her what he was trying to escape, and he was not quite sure about that either. 

”It does not matter.” He whispered, turning away, unable to bear the sadness he saw. He was surprised to hear her laugh; not kindly as was normal but raw and humourlessly: 

“_It does not matter_?” She repeated, anger overlapping her disbelief. “It does not matter that you disappeared without a trace for _three days_? That you caused a great strain to the kingdom? That _our __sons _refused to sleep until exhaustion beat them every single night worrying about you – that _I_ worried about you? You sit here and tell me that it does not _matter_?”

There were a lot of things that flashed through her eyes. Anger. Frustration. Betrayal. He never expected to find any of it directed at him.

Guilt should have clawed at him. It should have eaten him raw as it would have a week ago; push down upon him with its full weight until he would either buckle or break. 

Instead, he felt frustrated. Frustrated that she could not _see_, when she, above all people, should. 

”It does not matter because you would not _listen_.” His knuckles turned white as he clenched them, the soft petals crumbling between his fingers. “You ask me this question now, but I cannot help but worry that you will think no more of my answer in a week’s time. That _whatever_ I say will fall upon deaf ears.” 

Nimloth drew her hand back, as if she had been burnt. She looked hurt. “Why would you say that?” She whispered, leaning forward. “How could you ever think that?” 

“I had a lot of time to think.” He murmured, frowning at the flowers that were not ruined.

“Then surely you know that I would listen?” She whispered. “_Dior_. You do know that, don’t you?”

Stillness returned, save for the low cackling of fire by the hearth. If it was not for the cold atmosphere and the desperation trapped within her grey eyes, he would have felt at peace. Instead, there was nothing but tension. Tension that threatened to swallow him whole.

Dior tilted his head back, staring at the distant flames: “Was it even your desire to marry me?” 

There was silence for a long time. He had startled her. 

”_What_?” 

He turned his head, staring blankly into her eyes. “Was it your desire to marry me?” He repeated, too exhausted to even express the grief in his question. 

She leaned back, visibly saddened. “Dior, you know that I love you.” Her voice was hushed, barely a whisper, but she spoke with such sincerity that he _wanted_ to believe her. “I ache seeing you this way, and if I could I would have you pass some of your pain to me, if it meant to relieve you of it. Even if only for a moment.” 

He blinked up at her, feeling numb. “But did you _want_ to?” He asked. “Did you _want_ to marry me?” 

Nimloth closed her eyes, even though it was only for a moment. “You know very well that our marriage was arranged. Still—“ 

“I suppose the answer is ‘_no’,_ then?” He had hoped to not sound so hurt, yet he was unable to hide the tightness in his voice. “I’m sorry.” 

”_Dior_.” Nimloth said sharply, covering his face with her hands. They were firm. “I may not have chosen to wed you – but I did not reject you either. At first there was merely fondness, I will not deny that, but I _love_ you now. I bound myself to you and I did so willingly.” She looked deeply into his eyes.

“I will not abandon you. It saddens me to know that such an ill thought ever crossed your mind.” 

Perhaps he was foolish, but if so he had every right to be. Staring into her eyes, he knew not what to say, but there was truth in her gaze.

Suddenly, he did not feel angry. That was all he had needed. Meekly, like a feather fluttering towards the ground, he mustered an answer:

“Thank you.” 

She kissed him. Not hotly with the fiery spirit of passion but gently, as if he was something delicate to be handled with. It made him feel safe and for a brief moment allowed him to forget. When they parted, they were both breathless and dazed. 

Dior licked his lips. “I still worry.” 

Nimloth shifted so that she was pressed next to him. Nimbly, she swung her legs over his thighs and gently wrapped her arms around his neck. “_That_ no one can blame you for.” She whispered. “_Talk_ to me.” 

“I wonder often whether they even see me as king.” He paused. “The people, that is.”

She pressed a kiss below his ear. ”You _are_ our king.” 

”I don’t feel like it.” He had meant to sound upset, perhaps even a little strict, but his voice came out quiet. He felt tired. “I wish we could go back.To _Lanthir Lamath_. I wish that none of this had ever happened-“ he hesitated. “That I had never become king.”

Nimloth did not answer him. Silence settled and for a long moment they simply stared at the swirling flames.

Then, gently, she ran her fingers through his short hair and he leaned forward so that their foreheads pressed. She smelled of spring: Of fresh leaves, young rain and sweet flowers. She smelled like dampened dawn.

”I didn’t know you could do this.” Nimloth whispered, twirling his silver strands between her fingers. His was a paler shade in contrast to her own; more white and shimmery.

He had not realised how much he had missed her until she kissed him again. This time, she embraced him more tightly, and her fingers lightly scratched his scalp. The air had grown hot between them. 

There was an echo of song in the distance. It lasted throughout the entire evening.   
  


  
  


By the time they finished, it was already midnight. Her naked body was pressed against his own, sticky with sweat, and helped banish away the chill that stood present within the room. Only her soft breaths indicated that she was asleep, for her eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling as if caught in a dream. 

There was an air of stillness, although his mind was a whirlwind of commotion. 

Carefully, he arose to sit, for in spite of the tiredness of his body his mind remained restless. She did not stir. 

Quietly, he bent down to retrieve the silk robe that had been left abandoned a heap upon the floor. Desperate to be rid of the cold he slipped it on and with his arms wrapped tightly around himself approached the balcony doors that slightly stood ajar. 

Eyes fluttering shut, he pushed them wide open, welcoming the distant humming of Elven choirs. They sung in harmony and in lament; in both beauty and pain. Their singing eased his soul, even if only for a moment.   
  


Despite the trivial shame fluttering in his stomach, Dior could not help but wonder about a particular elf and what the lord of Himring was doing. Whether he was still awake and if he shared a similar thought concerning the burden of longing. 

Though _what_ exactly that longing was, Dior was not quite sure. 

  
  


• • •  
  


  
  


He should have left.   
  


He should have left the moment those eyes peered up at him. When those unearthly irises, full of _light_ and _life_ and _innocence_, blinked up at him and spoke of peace and prosperity. Futile words; nothing more than promises that would not be kept.

He should have left.

He should have not fallen for temptation– not even when the king had stood in the height of his glory and beauty with the Silmaril clasped around his throat.

Yet Maedhros had stayed. _Something_ had driven him to stay and he was not quite sure what that something was.

_Liar_. The lord of Himring scowled at himself. Frustration was one of the many things that threatened to drive him mad, but as he glowered at the licking flames that danced and burnt, he was quite convinced that something else would be the cause of his doom. Something softer.

No, not something. Someone.

”_Fool_.” He whispered to himself, glaring at the fire. “Wretched fool – what now?” 

He should have returned to Himring with Maglor. He should have slammed the door in Celegorm’s face. He should have left the _moment_ he found Dior in the woods. 

But bruised wrists and teary, twilight eyes had made him stay. 

“_Fool_.” The lord of Himring repeated defeatedly, rubbing his temples as the ache in his head only grew. He did not want to overthink but what else was there to do? There was no shying from the truth. 

_The truth_? Maedhros wondered silently, scratching at the stump where his right hand should have begun. _What exactly is that_? 

He closed his eyes. _That the fool has been bewitched_. 

Suddenly, Maglor’s final words to him seemed sharper than before. _Beware_. He could already hear Maglor’s laughter in the distance; how the minstrel would cackle upon hearing that his lord brother had grown soft for a _Sinda_ king. The grandson of a sorceress, nonetheless. What did that make him? 

No. Maglor was right. Dior was not weak. Maedhros had seen it with his own eyes- watched the peredhel conjure powers that he had no control of. He should leave, but he could. No, he _would_ not. 

Why not?

Growling, Maedhros pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He had not felt so agitated since the incident concerning his brothers and Lúthien. What would they think of him, watching him now? He who was squirming over a king not even half a century old? 

Rising up from his seat, the Fëanorion approached the balcony doors and pushed them open, frowning in disappointment when no strong wind or gentle breeze welcomed him.

He would never grow used a kingdom that was trapped within cave walls. In Himring, frost would have bitten down at his skin and stripped it blue within minutes. Merciless winds would be howling in the night.

Instead, there was nothing but stillness.

He wondered whether Dior was still awake. 

_Nonsense_. The peredhel was undoubtedly fast asleep with his wife in his arms; free from the burdens of unwanted nightly thoughts. 

He would not waste a second of his time thinking about a son of Fëanor brooding in the night. 

Still, Maedhros could not help but envision the sight of Dior at peace; with silver hair touched by strands of ebony spilt over silk sheets. He remembered how dark lashes would cast shadows upon rosy cheeks- and lips that resembled soft petals of roses.   
  
  


_Fool_. The lord of Himring thought to himself one last time as he stared wondering into the distance. He stood unmoving, lost in serenity, all the way until morning came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!! Another chapter up. That took some time :’). As I said before, this chapter kind of act as a filler ♡ & the next one should(hopefully) be up soon. Hope you guys enjoyed. Stay safe.


	17. Salutation

Spring was near its end.

Soon, summer would come to banish whatever remained left of winter’s frost and Doriath would blossom green once more after months of brittle slumber. 

Already the people were arranging for a great feast. During the youth of their old king’s reign, guests from all over the kingdom would come and rejoice in such a splendid time. Alas, times had grown darker since then and only the citizens of the city were permitted to attend the grand festival. 

It did not matter. Nothing of importance could banish the joy that now sprung after such loss and grief: The Sindar were both jolly and bustling with excitement. Servants struggled to hang up decorations on wooden pillars and most of the common folk had ventured outside to collect flowers or leaves to decorate in their hairs. There were only two days left until the feast would take place and the thrill of it was as clear as day. 

_Meth o Ethuil_. They called it. The End of Spring. Dior could not be more gladdened of its time, for it kept his people busy. He spent most of his days unattended and alone. It gave him time to think. 

Menegroth seemed more lively and brighter now than it had been for _years_.   
  
  


Although the sun’s golden rays could never reach the heart of the kingdom, the palace halls were basked in soft, bright lights. It was a part of the magic — a deeper form of power not even Dior could understand. It kept the trees green and flowers growing; so that summer reigned all year around within the confines of the city, even if frost or fury spiralled outside.

_The magic is slipping_. He thought to himself. _It crumbles even now. One day it will fall_. The king could feel it. It mattered not that he had some of his grandmother’s powers; it would not suffice. One day, the Girdle would collapse. 

He shook his head. Now was not the time to fret. _It is the end of spring. Summer is near_. He reminded himself. 

A smile strayed to his lips at the sound of light footsteps. 

_Ah_. Dior thought to himself fondly. It would seem that he was not the only one taking advantage of the people’s absence.   
  


He listened intently to his surroundings, smiling earnestly whenever he would hear the faint echoes of laughter or hushed whispers bouncing off of the palace walls. Crouching down to his knees and pressing his back against the hard wall, he waited until silence stilled again before peering over the corner. 

  
The boys were exchanging looks of silence, with worry etched upon both of their young faces. Elwing stood between them, her fat legs wobbling as she steadied herself against the wall, and peered up at her brothers with shimmering eyes.

The twins had always been mischievous. They were children, after all, and had their mother’s wild spirit. Unreadable. Untameable. Still, Dior could never be angry or annoyed with them. Their mischief brought life to halls that were often barren of it.

At last, Elurín spoke, his voice writhing with worry: 

“They’re gonna notice, ‘Réd—“

”Only if you you act suspicious!” Eluréd said, trying to remain composed for the sake of his brother. “We won’t be long, ‘Rín. It won’t do any harm. Look how happy she is!” 

Both boys turned to look at Elwing, who in return smiled and released a sound that was something between a laugh and a greeting. She stretched one of her chubby hands towards them and lost her balance, falling down to the floor with a soft thud.

Eluréd quickly crouched down and helped her rise up again. He frowned down at her, as if something was bothering him. 

”When do babies start to walk?” 

Elurín moved so that he stood next to his brother, taking both of Elwing’s hands into his own. “I dunno.” He said lightly, obviously not as bothered by the thought. 

His brother’s frown deepened. “She’s well over a year old. Shouldn’t she have learned by now?”

Elurín shrugged, smiling down at his sister who babbled out something that sounded close to _Ada_. Her grey eyes had noticed Dior behind them, but the boys remained oblivious.

“Nana said that Elwing’s a late bloomer– but she’ll learn.” 

“Maybe that’s true.” Eluréd shrugged. “We would be much quicker if she could walk.”

Smiling, the king arose to stand straight. Although he was deeply humoured by the sight of his sons kidnapping their sister, he felt that too much time had passed. The princess’ nannies would soon notice, that is if they already had not.

He took one step forward so that the corner no longer shielded him. The sound of his steps startled both of his sons and amethyst eyes widened. 

Dior pretended to act startled, as if he had unintentionally stumbled upon them. 

He blinked widely at them. “Boys?”

Eluréd spoke after moment of silence, considering that Elurín was far too shocked to even muster an answer: “Ada– we were—“ but he quickly grew speechless. They had not excuse.

Dior turned to look at Elwing, who giggled at the sight of her father, stretching her arms towards him. When he turned his gaze back towards the boys they refused to meet his eyes, staring down at their feet in guilt. 

“You took your sister?” Dior asked softly, hoping to not frighten them. ”She is suppose to be sleeping.” 

Eluréd was the first to look up, appearing defensive: “We didn’t wake her up– she wasn’t sleeping.” He blinked furiously. “She isn’t even tired—“ 

“— and we were only gonna play with her a little bit.” Elurín butted in, finishing his brother’s sentence as they would so often do. They rambled on an on; excuses after excuses. ‘_She never gets to play with us.’ ‘She’s always in that boring room!’ ‘It’s not like she doesn’t want to play with us too_!’

At last, the twins stilled to catch their breaths, staring up at their father guiltily. Elurín finished: “We were gonna put her back.” 

Everything became still. 

Dior looked at both of them evenly, then at Elwing, then back at them. A moment of silence passed, agonising and slow, where the twins exchanged looks of regret with one another.

Then, Dior smiled. It did not take long until the smile turned into a grin and before he managed to catch himself he began to laugh. The sound was the warmth of summer; a gentle breeze; the ringing of golden bells. He had not laughed like so in a _long_ time. Not since—

Since his parents’ deaths.

The boys looked up at him on confusion. 

”You—“ Eluréd hesitated. “You’re not angry?” 

Dior covered his mouth with his hand, struggling to compose himself. “_Angry?_” He asked. The word did not sit correctly on his tongue. “Oh, you two are the cutest...” 

Swiftly he approached them, taking them by surprise when he kissed both of their foreheads. Elwing squealed as she latched onto his leg. He picked her, tapping her nose lightly with his finger. “My apologies. _Three_.” 

“Are you feeling well, Ada?” Elurín asked cautiously, tugging at his father’s robes with curious eyes.

Dior ruffled his hair, placing Elwing delicately down to the ground again, who steadied herself against her other brother. 

”I am feeling much better, yes.” He answered, brushing a strand of silver hair behind his son’s ear. “Thank you for asking.” 

”Can we play with her then?” Eluréd asked excitedly, unable to do taint himself any longer. He caught himself and quickly managed to correct his mistake: “_May_ we play with her?” 

Dior smiled. “Depends.” He said. “Where are you taking her?” 

His answer seemed to have excited the boys, for childish mischief seemed to return to their eyes. “To our room.” Eluréd desperately answered. “We just wanna show her our toys — and where we sleep — and she can play with them too, if she wants!” 

Dior pretended to considered his answer, biting down upon his bottom lip in false regard. “Hm.” He said, studying them intently. “Alright. You may take her to your room—“

That was all they had needed to head, for a second did not even pass before they grinned widely and turned away, carefully holding onto Elwing as she struggled to wobble through the hall. Faint whispers and giggles returned again, filling the empty silence. 

Dior watched them disappear around a corner with a fond smile.

Nearly a week had passed since the _incident_. Six days to be exact. Although his time spent in solitude had been calming, Dior would remain restless until certain matters would be closed. Precisely, the matter that concerned Maedhros Fëanorion. 

_Maedhros_. 

Dior felt heat rise to his cheeks at the thought of the old lord. Memories flooded into his mind: Memories of wet, forest floors and pounding rain. The warmth of a body pressed against his.

Maedhros had _held_ him. He had embraced Dior while he wept. The peredhel had fallen asleep in strong arms and woken up alone upon a cold bed. Maedhros had carried him all the way back– through both mud and slippery stones. He had safely returned him home.   
  


For a moment, Dior stood alone and deep in thought. It was as if two strings were tied upon both of his wrists, tugging him into different directions. 

At last, he came to a decision. He cared not whether it was stupid– Dior had done quite a few reckless things within the span of a month. It did not matter that it was foolish. He did not care if his councillors would deem it _inappropriate: _They could not _forbid_ him from doing what he pleased. 

Yes. He would do as he pleased. 

  
  


* * *

The walk towards the lord Maedhros’ chambers was fairly short, although it _felt_ infinite. His room was secluded, located near the very end of the palace’s East wing.

It mattered not that Dior had passed by a dozen of guards and servants on the way, for the halls that lead to his destination were near empty. A few tapestries were hung on the wall along with flowery wines, but it made little difference. This section of the palace looked as if it had been left abandoned for years.   
  


Dior had walked towards the Fëanorion’s room in haste; prepared to settle things once and for all. He had made his final decision to negotiate with the old, ancient lord and seal an allegiance that would hopefully _last_.

However, as he stood before the door that would secure it all, he found himself hesitating in his steps. His hand was raised in the air, prepared to knock, but it was frozen in place. 

_What am I doing_? Dior thought to himself numbly. _Would the lord Maedhros even wish to see me now? After what happened_? 

An ill thought then came to Dior, one that made his heart sink to his stomach. Had the lord Maedhros perhaps left? The peredhel had not asked any of his servants of the Fëanorion’s whereabouts and he had not heard any of his kinsman speak of him.

Come to think of it, what reason did the lord Maedhros have to _stay_? Dior had already kept the lord of Himring waiting long enough.Not to mention that the son of Fëanor had already received what he had come for in the first place.

Then, saving him from his raging thoughts, the door suddenly jolted before it was opened.

With his hand still raised, Dior tilted his head back and blinked up at the tall lord, who in return appeared startled at the sight of the peredhel standing before him.   
  


Maedhros looked much different from how Dior had remembered him in the forest. He was no longer wearing the poet blouse from before but fitted robes in the colour of deep emerald. His hair was for the most part loose and fell down his back; save for the top knot on the back of his head that was fastened by a silver brooch. 

Both silence and tension fell between them as they stared into each other’s eyes. It was not unwelcoming but rather intimidating; fuelled by something Dior did not quite recognise. Thrilling. Amorous.   
  


”My lord.” Dior at last managed to say, although his voice was nearly lost. “I—“ he hesitated. “Are you feeling well?” 

Maedhros stared at him for a long time, as if he was contemplating on what to say. “Yes.” He answered after a faint moment. His voice had not changed. It was still hoarse. Rough but quiet. “I was about to go for a walk.” 

Dior blinked up at him, wondering whether he had heard the Fëanorion correctly: “A walk?” 

The lord of Himring did not move. His eyes blazed as they were fixated on Dior. They were as mysterious as they had been on the first day they had met. Cold. Unreadable. But there was a touch of softness. “In the gardens. Within the courtyard. I have come to find that they are always empty.” 

Dior wondered for a moment. Ah, yes, the _gardens_. There was no need to wonder why they were always empty. He had been told that as children, his mother and uncle used to play there amidst the flowers and young trees. No one had dared enter the gardens ever since his mother’s death. Or so Dior had thought. 

”Did you wish to speak to me?” 

Startled, Dior raised his head. Maedhros was staring at him, silver eyes sharp as stone. 

“Yes.” The king answered, surprised to find that he had a voice. “The gardens sound quite lovely, right now. May... May I join you on your walk?”

For a moment they stood unmoving. Then, the lord of Himring offered him a steady nod. 

* * *

  
  


The gardens _were_ empty.

Wines and weeds had found their way to the beds of flowers; flowers that had somehow, throughout the years, managed not to decay. The pools surrounding the white statues were however littered with fallen petals and twigs, so that it was difficult to peer beneath the surface.

The gardens, in spite of all the life, seemed lamented. If it was not for the distant echoes of silver fountains, they would have been dead with silence as well. 

Dior walked a fair distance from Maedhros, fiddling with his fingers as agitation settled in his stomach. The lord of Himring walked silently, his face for the most part blank save for the silver eyes that never seemed to cease burning. 

Swallowing, Dior dared to speak: “My sons came to me some days ago.” Maedhros at last halted in his steps, turning his head so that their eyes met. The peredhel hesitated to finish, unsure whether it was worth the risk: “They would not stop talking about your brothers. They speak well of them.” 

Maedhros stared at him. His face was blank. “I am glad to hear that.” 

Dior nodded and Maedhros turned away again, as if he could not bear to look at the king any longer. The peredhel was quick to notice how the lord of Himring had his eyes fixed on the trees and flowers. A question struck his mind: 

“Did you have gardens, my lord?” Dior asked, moving so that he stood in front of Maedhros. “In Aman? Where you lived?” 

For a moment, Dior feared he had asked the wrong question: That he had poked a wound that was never meant for him to reach. However, Maedhros did not appear angry nor frustrated. He was strangely calm. 

”Yes.” He answered quietly, staring at a bed of roses in the distance. “The largest ones were in grandfather’s palace in Tirion. I used to play there as a child and when I grew older I spent much of my time there with—“ Suddenly, he stopped talking. Dior could feel the atmosphere shift between them, this time it was twinged with sadness. 

Dior blinked up at him, smiling sadly. “Fingon?” 

Maedhros did not answer. 

”My mother used to play in these gardens.” The peredhel said, looking around. “With my uncle. They used to sing and dance here in their youth...”

Dior wished that it did not bother him. Knowing that here, within these very gardens, children used to play. Children that were once _young_ and _alive, _during a time when the kingdom was prosperous and great. Not crumbling into the darkness of the world: Struggling to stand after an old king’s demise.

“Is it not ironic?” He asked, moving to stand by the fountain. The reflection in the water stared back at him: Silver hair and violet eyes that shimmered amethyst. “How the most beautiful of places now hold the most bitter of memories?” 

Maedhros remained silent. He was staring at Dior. 

The peredhel looked at him and smiled sadly. “Do you ever wish you could go back?” He whispered, his voice nearly lost between them. “To those gardens?”

Dior wished he could go back to Tol Galen. To his parents’ small cabin and the forests that surrounded it. It mattered not how his heart beckoned him, he would never return to the place again. What would he find other than emptiness? A lonely house, left abandoned for time to take? Two graves without names?

Maedhros did not speak.

Dior sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was surprised to find that it did not continue down to his waist but stopped unevenly by his shoulders. He had not yet grown used to the length.

A sheepish smile strayed to his lips as his eyes met Maedhros’ again: 

“I cut my hair.” 

At last, he won a reaction. There was a long second of silence. Then, the Fëanorion’s lips twitched, as if he was struggling to tame a smile: “I can see that.” 

Dior managed to laugh. It was breathless and short. “I don’t know what came to me.” He said honestly. “I just _did_ it. It was easy.” 

“And what did _they_ have to say about it?” Maedhros asked. He did not need to define who ‘they’ were. ‘They’ were simply anyone but them. 

“I have yet to ask.” Dior replied, staring up at Maedhros who was looking down at him. He had moved closer. “I don’t think I will. I don’t care.” 

The lord of Himring stared at him for a long time. “Perhaps you should.” His gaze strayed down to Dior’s wrists. There were no bruises.   
  


The young king huffed out a light laugh. “Should I?” He asked. “My lord, in all fair honesty, my reputation could not be any more tarnished...” 

Maedhros’ eyes never left his, but the fire caged within those silver irises had grown soft. “Damage can still be done.” His voice was quiet as he stared at Dior. The peredhel was not sure what he was thinking. “You’ll be surprised at how much devastation the world has to offer.” 

“I know how harmful the world can be, my lord.” Dior said meekly, his gaze straying down towards the embroidered crest upon Maedhros’ chest. An eight pointed star. “I have felt a handful of its affliction myself.” 

He thought of his mother and father. How they used to hold him and sing songs. His mother had taught him how to dance and his father how to hunt. Dior remembered how kindly they used to smile. 

Where were they now? Dead. 

They were dead. 

Suddenly, surprising Dior from his thoughts, the lord of Himring grabbed him by the wrist.  


It happened within the width of a second, and far too startled to properly react Dior froze where he stood. A strange tension filled the small space between them, both electrifying and heated.

The lord’s grip was not tight, nor was it hostile. If the peredhel would pull his hand away Maedhros would undoubtedly let go.   
  


Even so, Dior remained still where he stood and allowed time to pass between them. The Fëanorion was staring down at his own hand that was clutched gently around the king’s wrist. He made no move to let go. 

With the gentleness of falling snow, calloused fingers moved to take the king’s hand. They traced the lines on Dior’s palm and tenderly stroked the back of his hand. It was merely a whisper of a touch; his fingers barely hovering over the peredhel’s skin.   
  


Then, the lord of Himring raised his gaze, sharp silver aligning with the softest twilight. 

Silence fell between them like the weight of night. Maedhros’ hand was still wrapped around his own.

_What are you thinking_? Dior wondered as he stared deeply into his afire eyes. He felt as if he had been stripped bare and that he stood naked before the son of Fëanor. _What do you see_?   
  


Then, hesitantly, the Fëanorion leaned over. The movement was slow: Slow enough for Dior to move away if he wished to do so.

Softly, as if Maedhros feared that the faintest brush would break him , the lord of Himring placed a kiss upon Dior’s forehead. 

The touch was tender. His lips were chapped and they barely grazed over the peredhel’s head. Still, the ghost of the kiss still danced atop of Dior’s skin, even as Maedhros pulled away.

Breathless, the young king raised his gaze. A strange feeling ignited in his stomach, as if a thousand leaves were raining from the sky and all around them.  


He felt alive. 

Hesitantly, the lord of Himring tucked a strand of silver hair behind Dior’s ear before delicately cradling the side of his face with his hand. “I think it is best if I leave.” He whispered, already turning away. 

“Meet me tonight?” Dior said meekly, hating how desperate he sounded. How his voice was no more than a whisper between them. 

Maedhros heard him. The tall lord turned his head, his brows slightly raised in surprise. The scars on his face seemed brighter in the gardens’ light and Dior felt the sudden urge to trace them with his finger tips. 

A moment passed. It was as if time had fallen still between them. Unnumbered amount of emotions washed over the Fëanorion’s face, and yet he still managed to appear unreadable.  
  


Then, the lord of Himring stiffly turned and walked away. A sinking feeling struck Dior where he stood and in that moment he feared that he had said the wrong thing. That Maedhros would leave for _good_. 

However, the peredhel was startled from his own thoughts when Maedhros suddenly halted in his steps. The Fëanorion did not turn to speak, but Dior heard his words clearly. They rung as loud as bells: 

“Tonight.” 

He was gone before the king could even muster a reaction.   
  


Gently, not knowing what else to do, Dior touched his own wrist. The memory of calloused fingers timidly wrapped around it only minutes ago still danced  in his mind. The whisper of the touch was like fire upon his skin.  


Dior closed his eyes as he released a shuddering breath. _Tonight_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of the chapter is a filler, but I simply wanted to include more of Dior’s children in this story. Especially the twins. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed the update.


	18. Of Freedom and Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second half of the chapter contains sexual themes and content

The kingdom had changed.

The changes of time were not only seen in the old and weary trees of the forest, but also the hearts of its residents. 

Dior knew people well. He recognised their affection; empathised with their sorrows; and foresaw their deepest desires. Above all things, he understood their frustration. Their prickling _pride_. The humiliation of having to obey a king not even half a decade old. How they _longed_ for their old sire and his lady; their darling princess and her minstrel brother; all who were lost and long gone. 

Dior could sense their judgement and false affection. One day he would suffocate beneath the weight of it all.  
  
Perhaps that is why he found himself chasing so blindly after something that had no ending. Something not quite frightening but _dangerous_. He felt as if he was a caged bird; toying with the lock that could one day set him free—

The sudden thought of calloused fingers and fiery eyes briefly flashed through his mind. Of deep scars that spread like silver threads and a voice deeper than depths of the ocean.

_Tonight_. 

Heat surged to his cheeks as his thoughts wandered further, and quickly he ducked away from the mirror and the reflection that taunted him. Silver hair fell over his face alike a rain of starlight, cropped and uneven. He feared he would never grow used to the colour, and could only hope it would grow ebony once again. 

Deep in his bones, Dior could feel that dusk was already setting. Soon enough the stars would reign over the night sky, only to be dampened by the waxen moon.

He felt anxious. As if he was dancing atop of a fine, white string. One slip would send him tumbling down into the abyss.   
  


There was a knock. 

Dior sprang to his feet. The door slipped open before he could even muster the strength to speak. A tall figure stepped inside.

“My lady.” Dior breathed, slightly startled by the unexpected visitor. The lady Galadriel smiled, bowing her head so that her golden hair fell before her shoulders: 

“Your Majesty.” 

A moment of silence passed between them, both brittle and calm. When Dior at last opened his mouth to speak, her voice had already filled the air: 

“Are you going somewhere?” 

Dior hesitated. He considered lying, for the sake of both his dignity and pride, but quickly decided that it would do more harm than good. He was hardly foolish enough to think himself capable of tricking the lady before him, and a part of him suspected that she already _knew_. 

Instead, he neatly folded his hands together, raising his gaze to meet her’s:

“Yes.” 

In her eyes he could see the light of the Silmaril; the purity of Trees that were now long dead and the grace of Valinor. They were warm but hard; gentle yet stern. He felt almost small beneath them. 

As if she was stripping him bare of his secrets.

At last, she turned away, her gaze wandering to the hearth. “I have neglected you, your majesty, ever since the jewel came into your grasp.” She whispered, staring at the fire that kindled in the distance. “You have changed, dear cousin.” 

_Have I_? Yes. Even Dior had felt it. He could scarcely recognise the person he was less than half a year ago.

Pieces of memories fluttered in his mind: Midnight-black hair and a freshly bruised neck. Damp, forest floors and pale wrists that were rubbed raw. It was as if he was peering into the memories of a _stranger. _Shattered shards of his own reflection; and the mere scraping remnants of a person. 

He closed his eyes, although only for a second.

“_Everyone_ changes, my lady.” He had meant to speak clearly, but his voice came out as a whisper. “It is inevitable.”   
  
Galadriel tilted her head, as if she was only half-agreeing. “It is the nature of men, yes, not Elves. The Eldar are meant to stay unchanged, even as the world shifts beneath our feet. Even when darkness creeps into our lands and despair heaves our hearts. Those of us who _do_ change; in ways that goes against our nature..." she hesitated. "It is a form of corruption. There is always a reason for it, and never a good one.” 

Dior did not noticed her approach him. Not until she stood dangerously close. He could not read her, even in the short distance between them. Her grey eyes were clouded and distant, as if she was caught in a dream: 

“Is there not a reason, your majesty?” 

Dior stared back.

_She knows_.

He almost laughed. _Of course_. Why else was she here, other than to confirm her rising suspicion? She was not easily deluded.

”I understand your concern, my lady.” The peredhel said softly, never once looking away from her hardened gaze. “You are wise, Alatáriel. Your council is appreciated, but I advise you to leave this matter be.” 

For the first time in his life, Dior noticed her gaze falter. It was a slight shift, barely noticeable, and lasted less than a second. Still, he had startled her; something he never expected himself capable of doing. 

“It will only do you harm, Eluchíl.” Galadriel said coolly. “_He_ has no love left in his heart to give. It was all wasted, years ago before you were even born. We are speaking of an elf whom your grandfather considered no less than an enemy.” 

”An enemy?” Dior asked, his voice like steel scraping against ice. ”Does Finwë’s blood not run through his veins, just as much as it does yours?”

He regretted his words the moment they passed his lips; knowing that in her mind, comparing her to a son of Fëanor was an insult worse than any other in existence. She stood frozen, her eyes wide, as if she had been slapped.

For a while they stood unmoving, neither daring to break the tension that had sealed between them. 

Then, the moment passed, and Dior found himself conscious once again. It was as if porcelain had been dropped, and the weight of its fall echoed throughout the room; shattering it of its apprehension. Something in her eyes shifted; not wholly sinister but dark nonetheless. It was as if winter had come before summer, and the atmosphere around them had dropped. Dior could feel frost scraping his bones.   
  


He opened his mouth, but no words fell from his lips. It was as if he had been rendered speechless. Instead, Dior shook his head, and like a wind whipped passed her and through the empty halls. He dared not look back. She did not go after him.

* * *

By the time that Dior reached the gardens, he felt that dusk had already passed. An air of serenity hung over the weeping willows and white blossoms; a strange calmness that was rare in forever-awakened halls. Spring was near its end, and through some strange force the people of Menegroth had grown content. Dior feared it would not last long.

In the very centre of the garden, there stood a fountain. It was old and worn, yet age had not acclaimed it of its beauty. One could only wonder what a sight such a structure would seem when polished and mended. Old weeds and wilted petals had coiled around the once white stones; hindering the sight of pure, running waters.

Dior felt slightly saddened knowing he had allowed such treasure to go to waste. A part of him vowed to one day have the garden tended to; or perhaps he ought to so himself, when a time would be given.

Gently, he sat down by the edge of the fountain, leaning over the water. His reflection was blurred, as if caught in a motion, and delicately he ran his index over the surface of the cool spring; shivering at the cold touch.

A moment passed in solace. Sighing, Dior bent down and plucked stray violets that through the years had sprung around the fountain. He nimbly laced them together, intertwining the delicate blooms through his own hair so that the petals wrapped around his head alike a crown. The sensation of it felt familiar, although his mother's hands had been much gentler and skilled compared to that of his own. 

In the night he found himself humming to the gentle tune of flowing water; a song that had been passed down by his father’s people; and for awhile he allowed himself to forget what exactly he was waiting for.   
  


"You should sing more often."

Startled by the sudden interruption, Dior turned to the sound whence the voice had come from.

Twilight eyes aligned with bright, fiery irises. Older than both the Sun and Moon. Maedhros Fëanorion was staring down at him with the ghost of a smile upon his lips.

“Hello.” Dior whispered.

The lord of Himring raised a brow before laughing. His laughter was both low and hoarse, and something shifted in Dior’s stomach shifted at the sound of it. 

“Hello.” Maedhros greeted in return, and much to the peredhel’s surprise he extended his left hand. “I was going to wait for you to notice my presence on your own time, but I grew impatient...” 

Dior hesitated. Eventually, he interlinked his own arm with the lord’s, feeling his breath awaken at the touch. “Oh? I never thought of you as the _keen_ type, my lord.” 

Maedhros did not answer to the tease right away, but bent his head as if to hide his smile. “Then it would seem that you hardly know me at all, your majesty.”

It was strange. The trees were quiet. Although he could not see with his own eyes, Dior could feel that the night was cloudy. The light of stars were veiled by deep shadows, and if not for the warmth of the arm that was twined with his own, Dior would have felt lonely.   
  


“It would seem no one is awake at this hour.” Maedhros said quietly. Dior raised his gaze and was surprised to find that the lord was already looking at him. 

”My people are happy.” The young king explained gently, feeling warmth settle in his stomach beneath the weight of those silver eyes. “I fear that it will not last long. They are preparing for the annual Spring’s End Festival, and undoubtedly gathering their strength for the jovial celebration.”

”Is that what has been going on?” Maedhros mused, tilting his head. “So that explains the tranquility...”

Dior bit his bottom lip as he refrained himself from laughing out loud: “Are you implying that my people are noisy and ill-mannered, my lord?” 

Again, Maedhros raised a fine brow. He looked charming in the night, with his red hair loose and wearing light robes of emerald green. 

“No.” He paused. “Although, I admit, it has been quite refreshing to be able to exit my own chambers without having to greet the glares of your royal guards...”

Dior scoffed, much to his own surprise. “I hope you do not take their mistrust as an insult, my lord. Most of them are old and wary of change._ Snobbish_, as my father's people would say, the whole lot of them. You see, he had his own share of bad experience with my grandfather’s court...”

The thought of it was quite amusing. Beren had faced them with courage and noble pride: He had ignored their scornful eyes and belittling laughs, all for the sake of his mother's love. 

Maedhros smiled, although it was evident that he had struggled to bile it down. "Is that what the race of men call us Elves? Snobbish?"

The peredhel laughed aloud. “That and... other things. Things that I would rather not say, my lord.”

This time, Maedhros did smile. 

Dior averted his gaze to his own feet, feeling heat surge towards his cheeks. They were in perfect sync with the lord’s own steps. However, whilst Maedhros’ boots rung softly through the empty halls, Dior’s were soundless in the night.

His arm was still interlinked with that of the lord's, and for a second he wondered why he felt such comfort. Why he found himself leaning _towards _the son of Fëanor and not away. He felt warm, although the night was chilling in its wake.

Suddenly, he was reminded of a cold, forest floor and strong arms wrapped around him. The feeling of a steady heart beating in sync against his own, the sight of damp hair and the colour of fire. 

“I never got to thank you.” He muted. In the night, Maedhros’ scars were fine lines of silver on his face, both detailed and intricate. As if they had been delicately painted on by hand. “For going after me. For bringing me home.”

The lord of Himring said no word. The silence lay heavy between them. 

"I'm grateful.” Dior whispered. “You did not need to do that. Truly.” 

A thousand emotions flashed through those sharp, grey eyes and none of them hostile. Time seemed to stand frozen between them, and yet everything was moving fast. It was as if the world was spinning around them, and only they stood still as stone within it. 

”I would not have slept well if I hadn’t, _pincë wilin_.” Maedhros said and for a moment Dior felt breathless. As if a cold wind had swept through them and left him alone for the night to take.

What was it that Galadriel had told him? That there would come nothing but harm? That there was no love left to give? 

Gently, the lord of Himring detached his arm from Dior's and leaned forward so that his fiery tresses brushed over the peredhel's shoulder. Dior could feel the lord's breath on his neck, and for a faint moment he believed Maedhros would close the small distance between them so that the heat of their bodies would mend together. Instead, he stepped back, and with a vacant look in his eyes turned to open the doors of his chambers. The room was filled with darkness, and wordlessly he stepped into it, leaving Dior standing alone in the cold.

Outside, there was neither the familiar echoes of distant choirs nor the trembling tunes of flowing water. Only silence. 

For a faint moment, the young king hesitated. 

The darkness was tempting; pulling his soul towards its warmth; and through some strange force he found his legs shifting beneath him. One small step followed by another. Galadriel's voice echoed in his mind, but he ignored it. Just as he had ignored any wise council provided to him in his life. 

Dior closed his eyes as he stepped into the shadows, and with a soft shudder closed the door behind himself. 

* * *

  
Ever since he was a child, his mother had warned him of danger. _Do not stay out in the woods after dark. Do not wander too far from the house. Do not trust strangers_. The list was endless, and Dior had obeyed every rule as the dutiful son he once was. He had grown up sheltered, much like herself, and in return had wandered out into the open world blindly without hesitation or thought.

No amount of rules could have prepared him for the deceit in which he would face. If anything, it had merely made him naive and foolish.

_Foolish_. Foolishly, he had allowed the Silmaril ensnare him. Foolishly, he had allowed the royal court control him, and now _this_.

The room was bathed in mellow firelight. Candles were scattered all around the place; in each corner and upon every shelf; and a soft hearth glowed weakly in the distance. Maedhros walked silently, his dark hair cascading down his shoulder like a pool of fire, as he lit each individual candle.

Maedhros was not handsome. Dior had come to terms with this some time ago, but he had never cared for the Elven grace of beauty. He had always preferred the rough standards of men; favouring scars and mars above porcelain-like skin. It mattered not that the Fëanorion did not quite stand straight, or how each step he would take was halted, for there was an aura of regal pride in the tall lord's stance. Not even the terrors of _Angband_ had managed to tarnish the docile image of the prince he once was. The perfect son: A devoted king. 

It was almost as if Dior was gazing into the past, at a time that was long gone. 

Feeling sheepish, he hugged himself and silently approached the centre of the room. Everything seemed untouched. There were no scattered papers upon the desk, no chair out of place nor a single smudge of spilt ink in sight. Even the bed was made; silk sheets neat and perfectly straight; and for a moment he wondered whether Maedhros slept there at all.

It was the exact opposite of Dior's own room, where one could hardly take a step without trampling upon an object. 

How was Maedhros so _intact_? Dior wondered. How could he, someone who had seen torments of the worst kind, remain so organised and calm?

Of all his brothers, Maedhros had been the most patient. He had been the most understanding, and surprisingly the most forgiving. He was _everything_ Dior had not expected and _more_. 

  
  


The peredhel only cleared his thoughts when he felt the tall lord approach him; akin to a silent shadow in the night.

Calloused fingers traced up his forearm, and felt rough as they grazed past his shoulder, over his collarbone, and towards his neck. 

Dior shivered at the sensation, recalling the feeling of dark bruises scattered upon his skin. The mars were long healed, and yet the memory of them remained fresh in his mind. He could almost feel the grasp of the Silmaril around his throat, along with the brutal sensation of suffocation-

Gently, the lord of Himring cupped his chin, tilting it upwards so that their gazes met:

“Something’s bothering you.” 

Maedhros’ eyes were gentle in the dark. For the first time, he looked soft.Young, even. As if youth was gracing him once again after years of tormenting absence. In that very moment, there were no scars upon his face or marks of abuse. There was not a feral fire in his eyes but a soft _light_. The peredhel found it nearly impossible to look away.

”I—“ Dior hesitated. He did not know what to say. What _was_ there left to say? “I hope I won’t disappoint you, my lord.”

Silence fell between them. One could hear the pounding of heartbeats through the gloom; alike the prancing of mellow rain. 

Tenderly, with a softness Dior had not believed him capable of, Maedhros brushed a strand of silver hair behind his ear. The fire had returned in the lord’s eyes, but they were warm, and Dior found himself captured by the flames. 

Then, alike the fleeting brush of a gentle breeze, Maedhros bent down and kissed him on the lips. 

The kiss was gratifying. It was the first sight of winter snow; the breathy blow of soft winds; and the faint sweetness of midnight wine. 

In the darkness, Dior nearly melted against the hard chest that was pressed against his own. He felt as if they were in the forest again, with the rain pouring all around them and the sight of old trees swaying to the rhythm of their trembling fingers.

He recalled the awe of his parents' love and realised how he had never felt such aching want before. Not until now. 

Their lips moved slowly, subtly at first and then with the passion of a thousand winds. Maedhros' fingers remained gentle as they slid through his hair and towards his neck, where his grip at last tightened. 

Dior felt an untamed madness awake inside of him at the sensation. His mind sang with the gentle tune of lust, leaving him flushed and gasping for breath. Each graze of a fingertip; every harsh grip of a hand left a dancing inferno upon his skin and he was _burning_. 

He felt alive.   
  


Maedhros was a white fire: Untamed and wild. He placed a peck on the corner of Dior’s mouth as he deepened their embrace; and fervently grazed his tongue over the king’s teeth in an open kiss. The lord of Himring was the very echoes of atonement and forgotten vows. The heat of raging fervour and the agony of a contrite Oath. He was everything Dior had never felt before-

And Dior starved for more.

What was it that tugged at him so? Was it the breath of freedom or the elation for danger? It felt feverish and almost feral- much akin the ache of salvation. 

It was madness, he realised. An unruly fury that had fluttered as a single flame deep within; a flame that had then spiralled into a glow both vicious and unrestrained. A fire that threatened to combust them in their passion.

Eagerly, never parting, the peredhel slid his hands up the Fëanorion's chest, through the fiery tresses and around his neck. He hummed against Maedhros' lips, and in return the lord of Himring wove one arm around Dior's waist. With his free hand he slid up Dior's back; so that calloused fingers raked through the king's hair. Soft, violet petals scattered down towards the floor and by their feet. They were left forgotten. 

At last, they parted, and in unison gasped for breath. Unearthly eyes stared deeply into the silvery irises of the tall lord; eyes that were clouded by both passion and lust. The fire trapped within them no longer burned with white intensity but was an ardent glow. They blazed with warmth.

Maedhros kissed him again, although it lasted only a second, and with gentle precision guided Dior backwards, until they both toppled upon the bed. The silk sheets were cold in the darkness and mindlessly Dior laughed as he felt himself being pressed further into the mattress. He found it difficult to breathe.

He ought to have stopped right there. To have risen from the bed and bid the son of Fëanor a good night. Dior was, after all, not a blushing youth but a _king_. He had duties to attend to – commitments to keep. He was not only acting rashly, but foolishly as well.

But he did not stop. Maedhros’ mouth was on his neck, and in return Dior kissed his ear with the affection one would afflict on one’s spouse. He sighed as Maedhros’ hand slid down his stomach and in between his legs; parting them with almost a frantic eagerness. 

The suspense of it was thrilling. If it was not for the strong arm snaked around his waist, Dior was sure he would have melted into the mattress. The scent of ink and parchment engulfed him; touched by the familiarity of a warm hearth and old leather. 

He knew not for how long they stayed this way. Only that time seemed to move slower.

Maedhros eventually raised his gaze so that their eyes met, although it lasted merely a moment, for not even a second could pass before their lips met for what felt like the hundredth time. Dior shifted beneath the weight of the body above his, and with impatient hands struggled to unfasten the lord’s breeches. The lord of Himring seemed equally as impatient, and rising up stripped himself of his robes. Dior was quick to undo his own, and shivered when he felt the cold air of night touch his naked skin.

In the firelight, Maedhros’s scars glowed like threads of gold and silver; resembling a mapped out landscape of brooks and rivers. Dior ran his hand down the hard chest, lingering on each and every fine line that adorned his skin, before returning to his face. Silence had fallen. Maedhros was staring at him. 

“You’re beautiful.” He whispered, bowing his head so that a curtain of red fell over them. “They all say it, I know, but my _you are beautiful_...” 

Somehow, in spite of his lost dignity, Dior found the strength to blush. Maedhros’s voice was rough, like the deepest depth of the ocean, and goosebumps arose on the peredhel’s skin at the sound of it. The Fëanorion's fingers grazed over his hip-bone, up his waist and towards his chest. They were light upon Dior's skin, and yet he felt the weight of them as if they were tenfold. 

Raising his hand, Dior gently touched the Maedhros' lips with his fingers. "Thank you."

Maedhros smiled. It was an attractive smile, bright and airy, one that the king had never seen before. It made him look comely, although only for a moment. With a soft laugh he kissed Dior’s fingers and then his lips; and with his knee swiftly separated the peredhel’s legs. 

It all happened slowly. One moment Maedhros was tentatively kissing his temple and cheek; and the next there was—

An ache. It was tense, sharp, and lasted more than a moment as the pressure between his hips increased. The king’s body went rigid as the lord leaned onward; and it was only when Maedhros kissed his neck that Dior at last sighed at the odd sensation. The son of Fëanor did not stop, not until he was fully sheathed inside. For a short time, they remained unmoving, and Dior's fingers trembled as they clutched his shoulders. 

Maedhros' breaths were heavy on his neck. He gripped Dior's waist with his one hand, so that his fingers dug into the soft skin. Dior held his breath, not knowing whether moving would make a difference, and remained utterly still. A short time passed before the spell was broken, and both individuals were freed from the trance.

"We," Maedhros panted, pressing his forehead against Dior's. "Should have used oil."

Dior laughed, taken by surrpise, and with a soft sigh placed a peck on the corner of the lord's mouth. Maedhros seemed satisfied with this, and with a low hum burrowed his face in the king's soft, silver hair. 

The lord of Himring moved slowly at first. _Gently_. He brushed Dior’s hair from his face and softly kissed the peredhel’s lips. It was only when Dior invited him further; by arching his back and gasping into their kiss; that Maedhros dared hasten in his pace. 

Mindlessly, Dior sought for the Fëanorion’s hair and gripped onto it tightly. In the matter of seconds, Maedhros’ thrusts turned from gentle to rough, and with his other hand the peredhel clutched onto his back; raking his fingernails over the lord’s shoulder blades. In return, Maedhros' grip on his waist hardened, so tightly that it would surely leave bruises. 

"This is insane." Dior breathed, gasping at the motion of their coition. "_We're_ insane."

Maedhros did not answer. Instead, he kissed Dior deeply; savouring the taste of sweetness and cleanliness. It was impossible to remain quiet, and it did not take long for Dior's voice to fill the room. He struggled to muffle his cries, fearing that somehow someone would hear them, and pressed the side of his face against the pillows. The Fëanorion was less considerate, grunting and groaning into the king's ear without so much a second thought. 

The sensation of it all was exhilarant; both the tight grip on his waist and the augmenting pressure between his hips. Dior could feel his body buckling beneath each hard thrust, and with a whine dug both of his heels into the lord's calves. Their teeth clattered together as Maedhros deepened their embrace, and the peredhel shut his eyes tightly, struggling to restrain the soft wails that bubbled from his throat. 

"Don't stop." Dior panted; clutching the sheets so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "_Please_ don't stop."

Maedhros did not. His eyes were aflame as he moved, and they shined brighter than the stars. He was growing tired, the peredhel realised, and when Maedhros' steady pace began to come undone Dior took his chance. Wrapping both of his legs around the lord's hips, he swiftly gripped Maedhros' forearm and flipped them over so that Dior sat on top of him. This action had obviously caught the Fëanorion by surprise, for his eyes were wide in awe. Dior laughed aloud, marvelling at the sight, and bent down to kiss him on the lips. 

"You're mine now, oh lord of Himring..." He whispered, mere inches away.

Maedhros smiled, revealing his teeth. They were sharper than those of a normal elf's, and something in Dior's stomach awakened at the sight of them. 

Slowly, with only a slight uncertainty, he moved his hips; rocking them to a steady momentum. 

Everything felt new to him. Of course, he had heard tales of men together - and lovemaking was not a foreign act to him. He had three children to prove that. However, _this_ was new. He had never bedded nor _been_ bedded by an elf of the same sex before. He had never even laid with anyone that was not Nimloth, nor did he think he ever would. The thought of it struck him vividly, but he did not linger in his worries. Maedhros kept him distracted, for he rested upon his elbows now, and the face he was making made Dior burn.

Hours seemed to pass by unnoticed. The night felt endless. Dior could not determine how many times they did it; in positions he had never thought possible; for he had long lost count after their third session. It was as if their bodies had been sculpted for one another, for they joined together so _faultlessly,_ in a tempo that was not only fuelled by passion but infatuation. It was not a rhythm but rather a dance, where his own movements moved gracefully to the pace of the lord's.

It was only when midnight had passed, and Dior could feel the breath of dawn upon his skin, when they at last stopped. For awhile they laid panting in the darkness; with sore muscles and bruised skin; and the cold touch of air tickling their burning bodies. Maedhros' hair felt like silk on his neck, and thoughtlessly Dior twirled it in-between his fingers; admiring the deep colour of copper.

"Russandol?" Dior asked. 

"Mm?"

The peredhel felt the mattress sink beside him as Maedhros shifted closer, and sighed in content when he felt the lord's lips brush against his neck. 

"That was your name, was it not?" Dior continued softly, combing the Fëanorion's damp hair from his face as he settled in-between the king's legs. "In Valinor?"

Maedhros closed his eyes, leaning forward so that his face rested in the small space that connected Dior's shoulder to his neck. "No one calls me that anymore." 

The peredhel hummed. His fingers traced the lord's face, brushing over his brows, his eyelids and the dorsal hump upon his nose. The lord of Himring allowed himself to be touched, and Dior relished in the moment, for dark thought in the back of his head warned him that it would not last. 

"_Names_. They're tiresome." Dior mused gently. "I have four - and only one of them feels like mine."

Maedhros raised his head so that their eyes met. "Aranel."

Dior smiled. "_Maitimo_."

"Eluchíl."

"Nelyafinwë."

"_Ausir._" The word barely managed to pass Maedhros' lips, for Dior shoved him lightly, laughing. 

"Oh- not _that_ one." He said breathlessly. "I've always disliked that one the most. How do you know of it?"

"How did you earn it, I come to wonder?" Maedhros asked, and if Dior knew any better, the son of Fëanor was _teasing_ him. "It's a great name to attain, and has a ring to it, don't you think? _Ausir_. It means 'The Wealthy', does it not?"

"It's meaning does not apply to you, my lord." Dior said, feeling his cheeks flush. "I myself have no care for it. I would rather wish it did not exist at all, for I will never answer to it."

Maedhros laughed before silence fell between them. They remained still in their positions, and for a short while said nothing. Dior was sure he could lie there forever, in comfort, with the warmth of a body pressed against his own. The world was full of peril; a part of him feared they would never be rid of it; but for that faint moment there was nothing but peace. Dior allowed himself to forget the burdens of sorrow and time. His gaze travelled to the distant hearth, where weak embers glowed faintly in their dying breaths. 

"Come with me."

Suddenly, the air of ease around them shattered, and for a moment Dior wondered whether he had imagined the words. However, when he turned his gaze, he found that Maedhros was looking at him, not with hope but rather defeat. As if he already knew the answer, but had dared ask anyway. 

For a moment, Dior was silent. His words died in his throat. He considered the proposition for a moment; what life would be like were he to run away. Himring was a cold fortress, but its lord's white fire would surely keep him warm. Even if he were to go willingly, rumours would sprout like untamed weeds. They would fester until they would turn ugly; and he would not be recognised as a king, but rather a paramour. 

Maedhros would keep him, this he knew. The lord of Himring would hold onto him as a prized possession; perhaps even one day come to view his worth greater than that of the Silmaril's. Had he been nothing more than a prince of Doriath he would have acted in haste, but Dior was both a father and a _king_. He would not abandon his children, even if the world would shatter beneath his feet. Not even for the breath of ardour.

Dior wanted _freedom_. Himring would be nothing more but another cage.

Maedhros shifted, visibly displeased by the lack of reaction, and with the height of the Eldar moved so that he towered over him. His hair fell around them; the peredhel could see nothing but those burning, silver eyes; and with his only hand brushed through the king's fair locks. 

"I can't." Dior at last said. His words were nearly lost between them. 

"They don't treat you right." The lord of Himring whispered, his breath hovering above Dior's own. His voice was as harsh as winter; like brittle frost. He sounded hurt. "How can you tolerate them? They have hurt you - and they keep you locked away. _How_ can you forgive them so easily?"

Dior wondered for a moment, his gaze never straying away from Maedhros' own. The son of Fëanor was right. Of course he was right. 

"I cannot blame them for their bitterness, nor their actions." Dior said quietly. "They have not felt joy, ever since my mother's death."

The lord's grip tightened in his hair, but it did not hurt. He leaned forward so that their foreheads touched. The glint of tears shimmered in his eyes, but pride prevented them from falling. 

"Have you?"

The question felt like a hard blow. It struck the peredhel deeply; more than it should have; like the strain of heavy tides. In that very moment, nothing else crossed his mind.

For how long had Dior grieved? He had wept for his grandfather and mourned at the departure of his grandmother. Like a _child_, Dior had cried at the death of his parents. He still ached for their comfort, knowing that he would never meet them again. Not until the world's very end - and even there on the path remained unclear. How much sorrow can a soul take before breaking?

Gently, he touched the side of Maedhros' face, tracing the silver scars. "I don't know." His voice was nothing but a whisper. "How do I know?"

Maedhros did not answer. He did not say a word. Instead, the lord's lips sought Dior's into a soothing kiss. It was a deep caress, with a touch of melancholy. Dior tasted both iron and pinewood; and inhaled the scent of old leather and wet ink.   
  


Silence fell, and lay heavy around them. Dior closed his eyes. Maedhros did not move from where he had settled atop of him, but burrowed his face in the king's neck where he breathed in deeply. Dior remained still; fearing that the slightest movement would shatter the fragile tranquility. He could feel Maedhros' heart beating against his own, and whilst listening to the lord's soft breathing, at last succumbed to slumber. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! Life has kept me busy, and I had to take a break for a short while, but I'm glad to be writing again. I experienced some technical difficulties difficulties whilst writing this chapter. That would explain the slight delay. tihi. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the update! I'm not used to writing, ahem, intimate~ romance scenes, and in all honesty am not that confident in my writing skills when it comes to writing such scenes. I can only hope that it wasn't icky.  
Hope everyone is staying safe<3 !
> 
> Only two more chapters and we’re finished ! (I can hardly believe it).
> 
> Translations:  
Pincë wilin: little bird  
peredhel: half-elf


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